


Collar and Cuffs

by orphan_account



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: 1920s, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Doctor/Patient, Enemas, Fellatio, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Humour, Jooster, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Medical Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Partner Swapping, Polyamory, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Threesome - M/M/M, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie Wooster and his man Jeeves have developed a close and loving relationship. Sometimes they invite others in to share their enjoyment.<br/>Will continue as long as Bertie can bear it; I invite you to work out which actors that I have crushes on I'm mentally casting as each of the guests.<br/>These are not the Fry and Laurie versions of the characters, but if you would enjoy imagining them that way despite the differences in description, I give you my blessing. I do draw somewhat on the TV series canon as well as on the original stories (the song 'Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors' has its rights).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joy in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/gifts), [Thaxted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thaxted/gifts).



It really is topping the way Jeeves rouses me of a morning these days. Don’t go seizing the wrong e. of the s. - he was always a most considerate waker-upper, letting one have one’s sleep out before shimmering in with a civil good-morning-sir and a cup of the amber nectar, accompanied, if necessary, by one of his famous pick-me-ups.

An altogether satisfactory way to start the day, then, but mere piffle when compared with the ways he wakes me now that we’ve become - well, I haven’t yet arrived at a suitable term for us, but a jolly sight more affectionate than master and man. There’s probably a French word for it, but blessed if I can remember.

But I was beginning to tell you how simply toppingly he wakes me now that we’re whatever-it-is.

I don’t mean to disparage the invigorating properties of the morning cup, but it doesn’t send a thrill through one’s marrow like gradually waking to the stroke of a firm, capable hand, or better yet, a firm, capable mouth. I have ventured to term this a Jeeves prick-me-up, but the dear fellow gave me a distinctly reproving look, and might have voiced his disapproval were not his lips most assiduously occupied.

Either way, he employs the firm and capable just long enough to shunt me from the embrace of Morpheus to that of Eros, if that’s the chap I mean, before rolling me over for the application of unguents and the subsequent application of a really extraordinary todger to my insides. The faithful servant’s faithful servant is a stout fellow in a rather rakish plum-coloured cap, and he dives and delves until he comes to rest on the most remarkably sensitive little inward region, and proceeds to surge back and forth across it as if rolling it smooth for a game of cricket.

I rather lose my way with words at this stage, and am reduced to abject yips and whinnies until matters come to a head. I generally manage to gulp out a sharp ‘Jeeves!’ at that point, and he squeezes my hand, or whichever bit of me he’s grappling with, and steadies me through _le petit mort_ (there generally _is_ a French word for these things, though I must say I find that one a touch morbid). Then I am contentedly jellified, and he pumps away like billy-oh until he is, too. Jeeves is no sylph, but his weight on my back is one of the most comfortable things I know.

Once the jelly-feeling wears off, I feel equal to anything and thoroughly bucked up for the day.

_Then_ he brings me my tea, because he is Jeeves and some things are certainties where he is concerned.

We exchange the usual morning pleasantries as I sip the brew: how the weather looks, where I think of going today, any little errands he has to attend to, how simply gorgeously marvellous we find one another, and then I set aside the cup and ask, ‘Well, Jeeves, and what is the well-dressed young man wearing today?’

You may be surprised to hear it, since I used always to preserve a hardy independence in matters of dress, and on several occasions have quite given Jeeves the pip when his rather conservative, dare I say staid, tastes were at odds with my bolder flair.

But you see, I love him, and what is one to do? It gives him such innocent pleasure.

Anyway, there are compensations, as today, when he raised one eyebrow perhaps an eighth of an inch and uttered the magic words, ‘Nothing, sir, but collar and cuffs.’

Well, I say. That sent a few thousand volts of the finest through the old frame. I fairly bounded out of bed with a gladsome cry, and beat it to the bathroom for the preparations. 

The first stage of preparations I don't care for so awfully much, but Jeeves is quite right that we wouldn’t offer a guest the Lafite in a cloudy glass, so I thought of England while he warmed and inserted the nozzle and pumped in the solution. This produces some very rum sensations down in the foundations. He insists that I wait and let it act, so I sat on the edge of the bath and tried to ignore all the gurgling and shifting and that massive sense of heaviness and fullness, as if about to lay a Roc’s egg. 

‘I say, Jeeves,’ I I-sayed, but he held up one quelling finger and tapped at his pocket-watch. 

‘I only wanted to ask who’s coming today,’ I persisted. He tutted and shook his head. Of course I’m not to know in advance who to expect at these binges of his, but can you blame a chap for wondering? Besides, I rather enjoy Jeeves tutting at me; it lends a pleasing shape to his lips. I think it’s called a moue. The Roc’s egg was jolly well making its presence known, so I thought of names for forty-seven ginger-headed sailors until Jeeves snapped the watch closed and announced, ‘You may proceed, sir.’

I proceeded as fast as my little legs would carry me to the smallest room, for at these times I’m always afraid the bottom will fall out of the market, as it were. Jeeves advises imagining one is holding a teaspoon in place between one’s buttocks, but I confess that I can imagine no such thing. Let me draw a delicate veil o’er what immediately followed. Suffice it to say that the process was repeated until I was clean as a whistle and a stone lighter. Somewhat drained and frail but much relieved, I toddled back to the bathroom where Jeeves popped me into a warm bath, that the outer man might be as thoroughly sluiced as the inner. I soaked, scrubbed and sang while he attended to arrangements in the bedroom.

Jeeves can, of course, do virtually anything he sets his mind to, being a man of infinite resource and sagacity, so a little home carpentry is certainly not beyond him. I defy anyone to find structural fault with the hooks built into the bedhead and ceiling above, nicely painted to blend in, and ready at a moment’s notice to support cunning little pulleys.

I emerged from the bathroom, shaved, powdered and sweet-smelling as all the perfumes of Arabia (though it was really just one cologne of, well, Cologne). I wore my dressing gown because it suits me, but slipped out of it sharpish, as Jeeves had laid out my things for the day. My collar’s an elegant little thing, white kid with a small brass clasp. The cuffs match and have little brass loops through which a hook, cord or padlock can pass, and they fit comfortably at wrist and ankle. Jeeves assures me it’s a very becoming ensemble. I think it’s what they call Minimalist. 

He buckled me into it with his customary light touch, then turned me by the shoulders to face the long mirror in the wardrobe door. I’m afraid a maiden blush bepainted the old map, particulary with him hovering behind me like a guardian angel in a morning-coat. He dropped a little kiss on the side of my neck and murmured ‘You look beautiful.’ I was quite surprised at the lapse in his feudal spirit, but I encourage all kissing.

‘D’you think so?’ I’d say I cut a fine figure in a well-made suit, but Bertram laid bare is not an altogether impressive sight. I shan’t catalogue all my imperfections here but I must admit my legs are thin. Jeeves is far more sturdily built, the old brains and brawn, thought and thew. I particularly like his thew. Nevertheless, he kept nibbling at the nape and running his hands up and down my arms in a manner calculated to raise gooseflesh. 

(Perhaps, though, I ought to give a lightning sketch of us as we were then, to sort of help you picture the whole business.I’m at something of a loss to describe myself. Wooster, Bertram W. Age, twenty-four. Height, tallish, build, slimmish, complexion, fairish and pinkish. Eyes bluish or greyish, hair brownish, face longish and nose ditto. Distinguishing marks: none. I’ve overheard myself described as looking like a car mascot, and while I would like to think that means I look keen and streamlined, a sort of manly version of the little Ecstasy lady on a Rolls, you do see some dashed silly-looking things screwed onto cars.

Jeeves is far more worth describing. He’s half a head taller than self, and a good bit darker, with sleek black hair that looks painted on until I get my hands on it, and heavy-browed dark blue eyes simply popping with depth and intelligence and superabundance of soul. He has almost a boxer’s build, but the pink and shell-likes are innocent of any knowledge of cauliflower, and if his nose is a bit knobbly, it’s knobbly as nature made it, not because of fisticuffs. His mouth is quite full-lipped, with an extremely distracting and provocative indentation to the upper one, and his chin is square and firm and reliable. Distinguishing marks: all of them. You’ll remember he was nibbling my neck.)

‘Ganymede,’ he murmured. ‘Hyacinth. Adonis.’

‘Didn’t he come some sort of a cropper involving a pig?’ Despite taking a Scripture Knowledge prize at school, I can’t always keep up with Jeeves’ classical allusions, if that’s the word I want.

‘Hylas. Endymion. Hush.’ He shifted his hands to stroke up and down my back. Jeeves’ hands are things of wonder, and if I’ve mentioned already that they are firm and capable, I should not neglect to tell you that they are large, strong, and always warm. Let lips do what hands do, says the poet, and they sort of were, working away at a funny little spot on the back of my neck that reduces me to goo. I believe Achilles had something of the sort, and I wondered if Jeeves would think me clever if I raised the point. I didn’t get the chance, though, for he rumbled ‘I should like to push you up against this mirror and have you, so that you would be able to watch yourself go to pieces around my cock. When you sprayed the mirror, I would push you down to your knees and make you lick the glass clean.’

This kerflummoxed me. I know that beneath the polished exterior Jeeves is as capable of the tender pash as the next man, but every now and then he blurts out one of these utterances that make the toes curl, the Adam’s apple bob and everything in between palpitate. While I was still palpitating, he stopped his kissing and rubbing, turned me about again, and hooked his forefinger into the front of my collar. It tightened rather, and I thrilled rather.

‘Come, now,’ he said, stepping back and drawing me along, ‘to bed.’

He had turned back the covers down to the foot of the bed, and laid towels across the bottom sheet. There were more folded ready on the seat of a chair, and all sorts of ironmongery and unguents set out on a tray. He settled me on the bed with my wrists locked to the headboard, and was just letting lips do a bit more of what hands did when the bell rang.

I sat there all aflutter while he went to the door, and shortly trickled back into the room with a welcome addition. Marks is a fellow Jeeves knows from his club, the Junior Ganymede, and a gentleman’s gentleman to somebody frightfully high up in some Ministry or other. He’s a cove of fastidious habits, just the sort to want to get at me first, while I was all shining morning face and clean bottom. His own face is pale and runs to the froggy about the mouth, and he’s all angles and elbows. His voice sounds as if he gargles with sand and lemon juice. When I see it put down that way, he doesn’t sound a bit appealing, but I can’t put a digit on what _does_ make him so. Perhaps it’s having eyelashes that could sweep chimneys.

‘Doesn’t he look lovely!’ Marks gloated, beaming upon me. ‘You have done well, Mr Jeeves.’ He put down his valise and fetched out a white coat. Jeeves twitched him out of his black coat and into the white one, and as it settled on his shoulders, his aspect quite changed. Marks’ favourite wheeze is to play at doctor and patient, you see. With the white coat, he is the genius loci of Harley Street. I haven’t the faintest whether he ever actually studied and I don’t give a hoot. The thing simply works.

‘Time for a thorough examination,’ he intoned. ‘Thank you for preparing the patient, Mr Jeeves.’ He plucked thin rubber gloves from his pockets and drew them on with a brisk snap and the air of a gourmand tucking in his napkin.

‘I should like to remain at Mr Wooster’s side for the procedure, doctor,’ Jeeves said. ‘For moral support.’ He skimmed over to the bedside and laid a proprietorial hand on the young master’s shoulder.

‘Oh, yes, quite so. I shall require your assistance. Now then, Mr Wooster, have you been keeping well?’ He planted one hand athwart my forehead and used his thumb to pull down my lower eyelid and have a squint. ‘The mucosa are pink and healthy.’

‘Oh, yes, jolly well, thank you, doc - they tell me I have Father’s mucosa.’ It seems that Marks really needs all the preliminaries to begin to enjoy himself. He had a good ogle at my eyes, ears, nose and throat, and tapped my knees, and said ‘Hum!’ to himself. Then the palpations began, quite distinct from my palpitations earlier. He palpated my abdomen for all he was worth, and I must say I enjoyed it. I don’t suppose I _do_ have any lurking hernias, but if I had, Marks would ferret them out. A hectic flush was climbing up the marble column of his throat as he turned his gaze to the hope of the Wooster line.

‘The genitals are well developed and present no external abnormalities,’ he pronounced. 

‘Thanks awfully.’

‘You must tell me if you feel any pain,’ he said, and with his cool, rubbery fingers, he picked up my pego and began to palpate that as well. He was jolly thorough about it, working from root to tip, and the kneading sensation was delicious.

‘Mr Wooster, do you find that you can achieve and sustain an erection?’

‘I should say so.’ 

‘Hmm. Any discomfort in the testes?’ He had a rummage about with them as well. At some imperceptible point in the transaction, palpation had become fondling. I actually have had my apparatus examined by a medical man, just to be sure all was A1 at Lloyd’s, and couldn’t help but be faintly miffed by his air of professional disinterest. Marks, by contrast, was positively dewy-eyed. I do believe his lips quivered.

‘Very well,’ he said, pulling himself together and setting down my two dots and a dash, noticeably pinker and plumper than before. ‘Mr Jeeves, if you would be so good? For the next phase of the examination, the patient will need to be on all fours.’

Jeeves made the necessary adjustments to my cuffs and planted me four square. As he did so, he murmured next my ear, ‘All well, sir?’

‘All _jolly_ well, Jeeves.’ I made myself comfortable on elbows and knees, and he passed a soothing hand down the length of my spine before standing back. Jeeves is the model of solicitude at these times. Should I exhibit the least symptom of reluctance, should my fingertips go a bit of a funny colour, should anything strike him as cause for concern he will not hesitate to intervene. I remember once this whacking great fellow was ploughing away at me and my raptures were quite blighted by a sudden swingeing cramp in my leg. I let out a mighty ‘Ow!’ and Jeeves cried ‘Stop! Out!’ in tones which brooked no argument. The w.g.f. was quite eclipsed. Of course all was well and we all had a good laugh about it and rubbed my leg, but it was nevertheless very comforting to know that Jeeves was, as always, there when I needed him.

But I digress! Let me see, I was quadrupedal on the mattress, Jeeves was hovering benignantly, and oh yes, Marks was swirling his gloved forefinger about in a jar of Vaseline.

‘You should experience no discomfort, Mr Wooster,’ he said, planting his other hand on the billowy regions and drawing one billow aside. ‘It may even be a pleasant sensation. Do remember to breathe.’

I breathed all right, with fervour, as he pushed that smooth finger into my fundament. I wasn’t at my snuggest, not after Jeeves’ attentions, but mine is a tender and responsive tunnel of love and I’m always glad of a little lubrication. I went ‘Oh’ and ‘Ah’ and ‘Mmm’ until I could feel the mouth stretched around his second knuckle, and then he began to wiggle it around and even that eloquence left me. After a little wiggling on both our parts, he curled his finger down and sought along the wall of the tunnel, and, well, rem acu tetigisti, the idiomatic one, with a nub. What a nub!

‘The prostate is healthy,’ I heard him pronounce, through the din of angels singing. ‘I would prescribe massage to prevent congestion.’ And he began to rub it, and I began to gurgle with delight. I really could not help myself. I was as one transported. Some people love music, some people love fine wine, some people love newts (it takes all sorts), and I love having my bottom-button rubbed. I moaned. I arched. I pumped myself back onto his finger. All the while, Jeeves gazed down on me in stately approval, and he toyed with the collar at the back of my neck. He would slip his finger beneath it, so that it drew tighter across the front of my throat, then slip it out, then give me two fingers, so that it was a little difficult to breathe, and really, the whole thing was highly suggestive.

The curious thing about being tetigistied on the rem is that it makes my lad dribble copiously. It’s a rather shameful feeling, as if I were wetting myself, and yet it’s such a pleasure that I couldn’t wish it otherwise. Marks’ finger goes squoosh and the wet stuff goes sloosh and Bertram goes oof. The part I’ve forgotten to explain is that he always holds a sort of large medicine glass under it to catch the lot. 

Marks doesn’t usually let me attain the summit from massage, so I wasn’t surprised when he slipped his finger out. Jeeves let me lay my head down on my arms to catch my breath a trifle, and Marks coaxed the last few drops into his glass before straightening up and holding it up to the light. ‘An impressive quantity,’ he observed, then set it to his lips and knocked it back in one. I don’t know how he can. ‘And the quality, as usual, is superb. Now then, Mr Wooster, I’ve been considering your case and I believe you may benefit from a new treatment I have in mind. It’s been used with some success to alleviate hysteric symptoms in women, and it should be just the thing for your nerves.’

Well, my nerves are as robust as they come, despite having managed to convince one eminent loony-doctor that I’m barking mad, but I’m always prepared to humour him. Besides, I was jolly interested in the contraption he was hoisting out of his valise. Jeeves had shown me just such a contraption in a medical catalogue a fortnight or so ago, and explained what one could do with it, and asked whether I would like to try playing with one; I’d said certainly, but he’d said no more about it and it had slipped my mind. The clever fellow must have been paving the way for Marks - and he arranged matters so that I could be surprised, yet still have agreed to the thing ahead of time. Do you see how thoughtful he is? 

‘Shall I plug that in for you, Doctor?’ Jeeves mildly enquired.

‘Yes, do,’ Marks said absently. He was fitting a rubbery-looking attachment to the handle of the beast, with fervent concentration. ‘You see, Mr Wooster, deep vibration of the tissues has been proven to be healthful and restorative. It promotes circulation and produces a bracing tingle. Mr Jeeves, if you would be so good? I should like him on his back now.’

‘Certainly, Doctor. The stirrups?’ Jeeves popped up again from plugging the flex in where my bedside lamp is usually moored.

‘Hmm, no. Not necessary this time.’ He pressed a switch on the side of the device and it whirred mightily, which seemed to startle him for a moment, but then he resumed his demeanour of professional confidence. ‘We’ll begin gradually, to accustom you to the sensation.’ So saying, he brought the pulsating protrusion into contact with my chest.

It’s an extraordinary sensation, a sort of purring and thrumming, and ensuing warmth and tingling. He doodled the thing around a bit, then introduced it to my right nipple. I bit a gasp in two. The Wooster nipples are acutely perceptive little devils, ever on the _qui vive_ for the frisson of an unfamiliar texture, simply stabbing through my vest in cold weather. The attachment was a sort of mushroom cap with nubbins, and as it nuzzled about my own nubbins leapt to attention.

‘I say! I have three erections!’ I yipped.

‘Indeed, dear.’ There was just the mildest quirk of amusement at the corner of Jeeves’ impeccable mouth, and I must diverge to tell you that since we became whatever-it-is I have been begging, entreating and possibly sometimes slightly nagging him to exchange ‘dear’ for ‘sir,’ at least when we are _tête à tête_ and no nosy blighters are in the offing. I mean to say, it takes no longer. It requires no more muscular effort to pronounce. But there’s the feudal spirit, and his habits are deeply entrenched, and in a way I suppose ‘sir’ is his _name_ for me in a way that ‘Bertie’ never will be. So when he _does_ drop ‘sir,’ or actually utter ‘dear,’ spring flowers bloom in my heart. I beamed up at him, and he stroked my hair - _he stroked my hair!_ And the dear fellow went on stroking it as Marks guided the thrummer down over my tummy.

When he began to play it over the old fiddle-diddle, I felt the healthful and restorative effects immediately. Which is to say, I felt a wave of pleasure so great that my whole body undulated like a wave upon the briny. My head flopped back, my mouth flopped open and I made sweet moan. I simply lay there undulating and luxuriating while the wonderful little invention purred all over my very nearly most sensitive bits. At some point I found Jeeves’ first two fingers in my mouth and sucked them ecstatically. It was sumptuous. I concluded that Marks was to vibration what Anatole was to gustation.

I could have wept when he withdrew the instrument, and I’m afraid I did whine.

‘Not to worry, dear. He is merely changing the attachment,’ Jeeves soothed me.

‘Mr Jeeves, if you would? Please elevate the legs.’

Jeeves took his fingers from my lips and bent forward, hooking his f. and c.s under my knees and drawing the pins up, apart and back. I suppose they could have used the stirrups, but this way meant Jeeves was touching me and holding me, which to my mind made it vastly superior. He brought my knees quite to my chest and held them there, which meant that the billowy regions were nicely upturned without the least effort from self. ‘Quite comfortable, dear?’ he asked.

‘Quite,’ I breathed. I closed my eyes as the loud whirring began again, and the purring followed, gliding up and down the cleft twixt the billows. The new attachment was a sort of round-headed rod, so that Marks could use either the sides or the tip to enchant me. I was still jolly greasy from before, so it was simplicity itself to introduce the tip to my nether mouth. My legs jerked and I wauled. I can thoroughly recommend it. Jeeves held me tight and made soothing sounds, and the thrumming sank deeper and deeper inside me, and merely to recount the experience has me all stiff and sticky. 

Marks began to angle the rod around, seeking and probing until I howled ‘Rem acu tetigisti!’

‘My darling,’ Jeeves said with unmistakable pride, and the thrumming bore down and deepened and swelled until all was bliss and squeezing and squirting.

With great consideration, Marks gently decreased the thrum and drew the rod out slowly. I still felt empty as the dome of St Paul’s with it gone, but I appreciate being let down gently, just as Jeeves gently lowered and straightened out my legs. He stroked the tumbled locks back from the dewy brow, and kissed said brow with great tenderness. As my fevered breathing slowed, I could feel something cool and hard scraping at my tummy. I lifted my head feebly and saw Marks employing a teaspoon to collect my effusions in his medicine-glass. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes bright, and he gave me an approving little nod.

‘I’m quite sure you will feel the benefits, Mr Wooster. A paroxysm of relief soothes the nerves like nothing else. I shall leave the instrument here, so that your manservant can continue treatments in my absence. I’ve instructed him in its use. Now, if you will excuse me.’ He nodded again to each of us, and beetled off to the bathroom, glass in hand, shutting the door behind him. 

‘Why does he do that?’ I asked faintly. ‘I’d be only too glad to have him inside me.’

‘Mr Marks’ greatest pleasure lies not in the bestial rut,’ Jeeves said, still caressing my hair, ‘but in the precise administration of pleasure to another, and in later, solitary relief.’

‘Still. One doesn’t feel like a good host when one’s guest takes his meal in the bathroom, so to speak.’

‘You are an admirable host, dear.’ Jeeves kissed the dewy b. once more. ‘And you are more beautiful in your joy than you can imagine. For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, for ever panting, and for ever young.’

‘I’m glad you think so. Jeeves, I do wish you’d kiss me on the lips.’ I was rather feeling the want of my hands, when I would so have liked to hug him and rumple his hair.

‘Very good, dear.’ He kissed me warmly, his mouth tasting salty with my persp., and I tickled his tongue with mine.

‘How are you feeling _vis-à-vis_ the bestial rut?’ I inquired, softly, against those beguiling lips. I craned a bit to inspect the lap of his faultless pinstripes. There was a mighty bulge there; were it a tentpole, it could have supported the Big Top of Barnum and Bailey. My mouth watered. ‘Do let me suck you off, Jeeves. Do. It wouldn’t be very _preux_ of me to leave you unsatisfied.’

‘I can refuse you nothing, my own.’ He unfastened one cuff, so that I could roll onto my side and properly address his lap as he sat on the side of the bed. He helped me to unbutton his flies and ease the bishop out of the flap of his drawers. Oh, the hot, musky smell that wafted out with it! I gripped the stout shaft and licked the tip till it gleamed. Jeeves gave a soft little hum of contentment and guided my head, ever and anon stroking my hair while I suckled. How juicy he was! How hard, and hot, how full my mouth! How his eyes blessed me as I looked up at him, and he down at me. How I love my man Jeeves!

He came off in very short order, and I drank him down gratefully. As his softening mass slipped from my lips, he fetched out his handkerchief and kindly wiped my chin. I confess that I have never discovered how to do these things _neatly._

He tucked himself away, kissed me once more, and went to get a basin of warm water for my sponge-bath, though not before reattaching my cuff to the bedhead. I lay and drowsed sweetly, half wondering who would be next, and more than half not giving a hoot.


	2. Oojah-cum-spiff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you guess the last guest star? It was Burn Gorman.  
> This chapter features a touch of daddy kink and an element of verbal humiliation, including a homophobic insult. I assure you that it is all consensual.  
> And as many and varied expressions for 'penis' and 'bottom' as I could readily lay my hands on.  
> To be continued.

After my interlude with Mr Marks, need I say that Jeeves took care of everything with efficiency and despatch? Of course not. You know as well as I do that he sponged me down and patted me dry, changed the towels I lay on, cleaned the thingummies that went with the whatsit and tidied the whole outfit away. He showed Marks to the sitting-room and settled him to recover from his excitement with a cup of tea and a biscuit. That left us with a little time before the next caller was expected, so he returned to my room, pulled up a chair to sit chummily beside me, and very considerately helped me to smoke a cigarette, holding the gasper to my lips so I could inhale. 

You may well ask, why didn’t I ask him to uncuff me so that I could hold my own gasper? Why didn’t I jolly well _tell_ him to uncuff me? What of my dignity, my independence, my mastery? Did _noblesse_ not _oblige?_ I didn’t _want_ to. I wanted to place myself wholly in his hands. Here I am, Jeeves, one says, in effect. Do with me what you will. 

‘Sir,’ he said, extinguishing the stub in the ashtray, ‘before our next guest arrives I believe some preparation is in order, for the sake of your comfort.’

‘Oh? Prepare away, then.’ This gave me an inkling of who I might expect, I can tell you.

‘Very good, sir.’ He rose to unlimber one wrist from the headboard, and brought it over to link to the other, so that I lay on my side (is all this making sense to you? I’m never sure. Sometimes I think it would help to include a plan of the room, like an Agatha Christie mystery showing the scene of the crime) with both arms out before me and my back towards him. 

Oh! And I’ve just recalled that it was a lovely sunny day. The curtains were open but the nets were still drawn, so that we had some light but the teeming masses of the metrop. couldn’t see in (not that many of them could see in three flights up). I could feel the filtered sunshine on my bare back. It felt lovely. Just to show what a thoroughly co-operative and biddable Bertram I could be, I bent my knees and stuck my bottom out a bit.

‘Perfect, sir.’ I could hear him unscrewing a lid, and in just a moment I felt his fingertips, all smooth and slick, rubbing betwixt my billows. Round and round they went, ring-a-rosie, pressing a bit at a time where I was still nicely lax and hospitable from Marks’ treatment. Ordinarily Jeeves starts with one finger and that slowly, but my bot happily gobbled up two without hesitation. It took a bit more patience and stroking to make it three, but it was well worth it. 

‘Oh Jeeves… Jeeves...’ 

‘Yes, sir?’ He bunched the three together and slid them deeper. It felt tight now, and twitchy, but only a token resistance. Thick, warm fingers coursing smoothly in and out have a way of overcoming all muscular objections.

‘I love that… that’s all...’

‘Yes, you do, you precious little catamite.’ He kissed me on the nape of the neck, which started a sort of tennis match between that spot and the spot he was rubbing, volleying sweet shudders up and down the old vertebrae. I don’t mean plain kissing, but really lingering, wet, sucking osculation, the sort of thing that makes one wear a high collar for days afterwards. ‘Would sir enjoy something a bit larger?’ he mumbled into my hair.

‘Yes, oh yes.’ He must have had it ready to hand, for the next thing I felt was the tapered muzzle of a metal plug pressing in. Jeeves has a little collection of these, from a small and unobtrusive one that I can wear out and about just to feel like a devil, to an obscene monster that I haven’t quite managed to accommodate yet. This one was a stretcher and no mistake. It was warm, so I suppose he had been palming it with the other hand. 

‘Breathe, sir… yes… that’s the way… you open like a daisy.’ Once it was well lodged inside, he began pressing on the butt end of the thing, rolling it about. I had only a short time to enjoy it before he drew it out, with a squelch and a pop, and pushed in another, thicker and longer, a proper cock-shape. It hurt just a touch, and I whimpered a bit. ‘All right, sir?’

‘Oh… yes… only… hold it still for a moment.’ The sting subsided when he ceased to press, and when I had collected myself a little and girded up my loins, I attempted a little backward wriggle. ‘Ooh.’

‘Please be more explicit, sir. Is that an _ooh_ of discomfort, or an _ooh_ of dawning pleasure?’

‘Dawning. _Ooh.’_ I wriggled again. ‘Ooh, yes. I think I can get it this way - just hold it steady, will you?’ So, bit by bit, I squirmed myself down the length of the maypole. 

‘How does that feel, sir?’ Jeeves dipped his fingers down from the base of the thing and rubbed just behind my cherries.

‘Mnaaargh,’ I replied astutely.

‘Full, sir?’

‘As a bull, Jeeves.’

‘Yet not quite full enough, sir.’

‘I know… oh… but let me just enjoy this a bit first.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ He slid both hands up to knead at my blushing cheeks, and I rocked back against them gratefully. That made the toy tickle-stick slide out rather, which led to a little game of Jeeves nudging it back in and me squeezing it back out. It made me breathless and giggly, and while I would not believe you if you swore to me that Jeeves had once giggled when he was a baby, he was breathing rather chuffingly in a manner not inconsistent with mirth. My inside was once again feeling those rolling thrills, my outside had relaxed and stopped hurting, and all was oojah-cum-spiff. I thought I might very well come off just like this. 

‘Ready now, sir?’

‘Oh… yes… but put more Vaseline on it, will you? I need all the help I can get.’

‘Just as you say, sir.’ The third of the stretchers went in quite nicely, though, and I can only suppose that by this time all muscles concerned had given up the fight entirely and were lying in stunned abeyance. So was I. It felt as if I had a Tube train up my tunnel. I had been through this before, but each time it simply seemed _excessive._

Then there was a ring at the door, Jeeves kissed me and excused himself, I heard the door open and a heavy tread on the floorboards, and I remembered clearly why this was so necessary.

The first time I met Lyons I assumed that Jeeves had deviated from the norm, and rather than selecting a paramour for me from among the Junior Ganymede’s membership, he had located some den of vice, walked in, smashed a bottle on the bar to make a dagger, and announced ‘I’ll fight the scariest so-and-so in the room.’

Then, somehow, he amended that to ‘Would you like to come home with me and play bugger-my-master?’

Which goes to show how very wrong first impressions can be, because Lyons is a member in good standing of the J.G. and buttles with the best of them. His past is a trifle chequered. Until a few years ago, he was what I think they call a goon in the New York Mob. His particular liege lord was a social climbing sort of gangster, and it pleased him to have one of his heavies play the part of butler, chiefly for the look of the thing. To no-one’s surprise more than to his own, Benny ‘Big Palooka’ Lyons discovered that he was one of Nature’s butlers. Nothing soothed his savage breast like the proper direction of a household. Soon he was spending far more time ordering good wines and polishing the silver than breaking heads and capping knees. Before too long, his master had gone to the pen over some trifling misunderstanding with the tax people, but he found another situation, then another, before clicking with an Honourable visiting the city. He came back to London with his new master and has been eminently respectable ever since.

However, he still looks as if he lived at the top of a beanstalk, and has a face that could stop Big Ben. The man has a head of wiry white curls, shoulders broad enough to lay for tea, and shoes the size of rowboats. Yet again, I find it impossible to convey his appeal in description. His voice is like bootleg whiskey and broken glass, his blue eyes glower out from under Piltdown eyebrows, and if you’ve seen a more thoroughly thuggish and intimidating-looking individual, you’ve met my Aunt Agatha. Sorry about that.

The door squeaked open and Jeeves shimmered in. ‘Mr Wooster, Mr Lyons to see you.’

I always somehow expect Lyons to get stuck in doorways, or to have to go through them sideways. He isn’t quite that large, but he _looks_ it. He walked to the foot of the bed and stood there grinning down at me where I lay. Lyons has teeth like white marble tombstones. I rather want him to bite me.

‘Hiya, Bertie.’ I’m sure he doesn’t talk this way professionally, but when he comes to see me Lyons reverts to the hoodlum patois of his youth.

‘What ho, Lyons,’ I said, over my shoulder. ‘How goes?’ He was looking rather dashing in a grey wool suit, clearly not his working clothes, and pulling off a pair of dove-grey gloves finger by finger.

‘I’m doin’ okay. Guess I don’t need to ask how you’re doin’. You got a dildo the size of a railway spike up your ass. You’re doin’ fine.’ He stuffed the gloves into his pocket, shrugged off his jacket and threw it to Jeeves, who fielded it capably. 

‘Oh, have I?’ I asked, attempting nonchalance. I was having the dickens of a time not to squirm like a puppy. 

‘You ain’t noticed?’ He tugged loose his tie, then undid his cufflinks and collar studs, which Jeeves stepped forth to catch quite as if he were the master. ‘You’ll notice me.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’

Lyons whipped his suspenders down from his shoulders with his thumbs. There was a certain thingness in his gaze. I squiggled before it. ‘How many had ‘im today, Jeevesie?’

Yes, he really called him that. Without turning a hair, Jeeves replied. ‘Myself only. Mr Marks pleasured him by other means.’

‘Ohhh.’ Lyons pursed his lips. ‘Marks, huh? He’s a little weird. But he gets the job done. Pity. I kinda like sloppy seconds.’ He was unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke, showing me a positive pelt of silver curls that began under his collarbones and peeped out of the scoop of his vest.

‘I say, Jeeves? Turn me over, would you?’ I didn’t fancy getting a stiff neck craning over my shoulder to see Lyons, but I couldn’t very well look away; he was such an absolute smasher.

‘How would you like him positioned, sir?’ Jeeves deferred to Lyons. 

‘Hrrmmmm. I’d say… give ‘im some rope. Hitch the cuffs to the headboard, but I wanna be able to toss ‘im around a little.’ He pulled off his shirt as if he bore it a grudge and threw it to the floor. Jeeves rather got in my way as he came to change the bindings, but I took it in good part. I don’t know whether you have ever tried to move about on a bed with an absurdly large mock merrymaker buried in your bottom, but I for one have done easier things. It slipped halfway out as I tried to turn, and I groaned.

‘Make ‘im sit on it,’ Lyons grunted.

Jeeves gave me a careful look, just for a moment, found me game and hoisted me up. The motion rocked the thing back up into me and it quite took my breath away. With a length of cord between each cuff and the corners of the headboard, I could lower my arms and tried to take a bit of my weight on them. Jeeves gave me a pat on the back.

‘Fuck yourself on it.’ Lyons tore off his vest and threw it down, and stood there breathing heavily, grinning at me. As I made a valiant effort to at least rock back and forth, he spread one great mitt across the lap of his trousers and seized his pendulum. ‘C’mon, Bertie, you can do better’n that. _Fuck_ it.’ He gripped and rubbed, and I dug my heels in and managed a spirited bounce. ‘That’s it. C’mon, you limey pansy. Fuck that candy ass.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather?’ I was simply running with the old persp. and huffing like a steam-engine. This bouncing was a strain, but oh! it was beginning to pay off. My rupert was tapping against my tummy and slapping between my thighs, and my poor battered bottom-button was reawakening to life and love and all that sort of thing. I was most emphatically in season.

‘I’m gettin’ there, don’t rush me.’ He was still groping at the gooser, and it was looming forth through the grey serge. He mounted the foot of the bed on his knees and swaggered towards me. ‘I tell you to stop?’

‘I’m puffed,’ I protested, flagging momentarily.

‘C’mere.’ He hooked his vast paw behind my head and held me, angling in to kiss me and breathing like a carthorse. I turned to putty and let my mouth drop open, and he swiped his great wet tongue between my lips. The brute kept taunting me, offering a kiss and giving a lick, until I lost patience and sucked his tongue as long as he would let me, until he pulled away. ‘Who’s your daddy?’

I knew from sorrowful experience that the desired response was not ‘The late Percival Wooster; what’s it to you?’ Now you need not feel as bally a fool as I did. The proper thing is to give a shiver and huskily murmur ‘You are, Daddy.’

‘Damn right.’ _Then_ he kissed me properly, as if he was going to eat me up. When he let me go I was seeing stars and my lips felt bruised. He tore open his flies and shoved his trousers and drawers down from his hips. ‘Now take that goddamn thing out of your ass and sit on my dick. Time for your baloney colonic.’

Scarcely had I cleared the windward passage when he hauled me astride his lap and crammed me down upon his lobster. Fittingly, it went in as if buttered.

‘Ya like that?’ He gripped me by the billows and gave me a good rollicking. I bit my tongue slightly and cared not a whit. 

‘Mmph!’ I squeaked.

‘Say, “Yes, Daddy”.’ 

‘Oh, _yes,_ Daddy.’ I flopped my bean onto his shoulder and yielded to the rollicking. Once I’ve been expanded sufficiently, he does feel supremely good. My camera obscura rejoiced. He seemed to be in particularly rammish spirits this morning, pumping me with short, brisk strokes, as if shaking up a cocktail.

‘Damn, that’s nice,’ he rumbled. ‘All tight ‘n’ squishy. I like a guy who really _wants_ to take it in the ass.’

‘I do, I do, I _do!’_ The curious thing is how difficult it is to sort of convey and convince how swimmingly ripping a thorough buggery feels. It grows repetitive and palls upon the inward eye which is the bliss of something or other, when actually the steady repetition is just what does one a power of good. He held me close and lowered me onto my back and never flagged. After a bit he did pull out, but only in order to toss me onto my front without spraining his giggle-stick. I lay with my arms crossed over and felt him slide back home, and his great grasping hands kneading my botty as if making bread. He began a deep, steady drubbing stroke and called me, among other things, a ‘hot little number,’ a ‘sweet little fuck-toy,’ and ‘Daddy’s little ass-baby.’ My sensations were indescribable, and extremely nice. 

The pink and gold fog in my head was presently cleared a little by the sound of a mild and deferential cough, as if of a sheep clearing its throat of a blade of grass on a distant hillside. I looked up with swimming eyes and found Jeeves leaning in to speak to Lyons, who briefly stilled his churning.

‘If I may offer a suggestion,’ quoth he, ‘perhaps the mirror?’

‘Oh, hell yes,’ Lyons replied. Jeeves shimmered off, and Lyons bent forward, hooked one great forepaw under my arm and across my chest, and the other about my tummy, before rearing back and hoisting me up against him. I was positively spitted on his pole, and I whimpered. ‘It’s okay, baby,’ he purred, stroking my tummy. ‘Daddy’s pretty big, huh?’ I whimpered in the affirmative. ‘Is Daddy hurting baby’s tushie? Aww, poor baby. Bad Daddy.’ He screwed his hips about to cram himself deeper, if that were possible - he was jolly near peeping out through my mouth. ‘But Daddy can’t help it. Baby’s fuckhole feels so _good._ Lemme use it a little bit more?’

I turned my head, and on my second try managed to kiss him. Even respectably cleanshaven, to kiss Lyons is to have one’s nose-tip, upper lip and chin well scoured. He kissed me back, all wet and slurping, and moved his hips so that a python squirmed in my tummy. ‘Attaboy,’ he murmured. ‘Good baby.’

Jeeves returned to the bedside, bearing the large mirror that goes over my dressing-table. He placed it facing us, avoiding my cords, and deftly angled it for the best view. ‘If sir would care to look?’

I was a sight - not a pretty one, to my mind, with my hair badly ruffled, my lips all puffy from kissing and my face pink from the hairline down. The flush extended right down my neck and splayed out across my chest before it faded away. Against my pale, smooth chest and tummy (I’ve never been what you could call hirsute), Lyons’ hands looked as red and veiny as his todger. He reached down to lift up my legs, and I could see where he went into me as plain as day: my little bunghole, stretched so tight around that mighty live sausage, everything glossy with Vaseline, the thick rib along his underside and the squiggly veins, his great heavy balls like two grapefruit in a bag - oh, and I had a stiffie that touched my tummy, if you’re at all interested in _my_ belly-ruffian.

‘He’s a brave boy, huh, Jeevesie? Takes a lot of guts, even when you’re this horny, to take a third leg like mine.’

‘He is to be commended for his courage as much as for his desire, sir.’

‘Now you watch, baby, while Daddy fucks you.’

Watch? I goggled. I tried not to see my own phyzog, which was rendered rather gulping and frog-like, and simply stared at the extraordinary goings-on down below, the pushing, the sliding, the stretching and flexing, the jiggling and quivering. Lyons wrapped one great paw around my pego and pumped it roughly, and before I knew where I was I was spending helplessly, the scarlet head spitting out strings of white to drape over his knuckles. The sight must have spurred him on, for he began to thrust faster and harder, puffing and blowing like a grampus, until he made a perfect profiterole of my latter end. He uncorked me, still holding me up, and let me see my tunnel, still stretched and gaping open, pink and shiny, and lashings of his pearly seed dribbling out.

‘Good boy,’ Lyons grunted. ‘Lookit that baby boy cunt.’ He let me down onto my front, gave my quivering bottom an approving slap, and rolled off the bed. ‘Take care a’ him, okay Jeevesie? I gotta piss like a racehorse.’


	3. Saperlipopette!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we discover that Airy does not just invite crushable actors to make guest appearances, she also employs famous fictional characters. Specifically, Tintin and Haddock make a guest appearance because dear hobbitdragon wanted it. They're from roughly the right time period - roughly! - and let's not pick nits, anyway.   
> The Captain's tattoos and body hair here are completely uncanonical, but everyone knows both body hair and tattoos are a huge pain in the bottom to draw consistently, so let's just assume that they're what Hergé _would_ have drawn if he'd been less devoted to ligne claire and more influenced by, I don't know, Tom of Finland.  
>  In terms of content warnings, there's some breathplay, very rough and rather reckless sex, double penetration and consenting pain, not to mention orgasm denial. Have fun.

With Lyons elsewhere performing his tribute to the noble equine, Jeeves once more took me in charge. As I was lying like a recently stranded jellyfish, he kindly turned me over to prevent suffocation, then kissed me until it threatened once more. I went so far as to lightly tap him on the shoulder, and he took it in good part, letting me breathe while he dabbed further busses all about my map.

‘Pardon -’ (with a kiss) ‘my amorous zeal -’ (with a kiss) ‘but you are -’ (with a kiss) ‘my heart’s darling.’ He drew back and regarded me fondly, not to say soppily, and stroked back my hair. ‘How are you now?’ 

‘Absolutely tickety-boo. Yet at the same time utterly spent and - what is the word?’

‘Fucked out,’ Lyons suggested, strolling back in and over to the chair where Jeeves had draped his jacket.

‘Not a term consistent with Mr Wooster’s idiom, I believe. You will find matches on the mantelpiece.’

‘I call ‘em like I see ‘em,’ Lyons replied, taking a cigar case from an inner pocket, ‘and that is one fucked-out baby. Show me your ass, Bertie boy.’

I obliged him by lifting and spreading my legs, shaky though they were. I could still feel his spending seeping soupily out of me; I’m certain there must have been at least a pint of it. I find it a deliciously debauched sensation. Lyons must have been pleased too; he flashed me a brief grin before attending to his cigar. Once lit, he slung himself over by my side, crossing his ankles jauntily, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. 

‘You oughtta charge admission,’ he said.

‘Prostitution is illegal,’ Jeeves said, with the merest hint of disapproval in his tone.

‘So’s sodomy; you wanna pick and choose?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, snuggling up to Lyons and resting my cheek on his chest. ‘I’ve enough oof to last me, and I’d far rather do it for free.’

‘It’s your gift to the world, huh? Jeeves, you seriously don’t give a shit?’ Lyons sometimes needles Jeeves on this point. He seems to think that every man _must_ be an Othello at heart and Jeeves secretly seethes with jealousy.

‘I care very much for Mr Wooster’s comfort and pleasure.’

‘You see, you must consider the psychology of the individual,’ I put in, rubbing my cheek against lovely stiff hair and a lovely soft nipple. ‘Jeeves is not as other men. His is a noble and generous nature. He freely shares his treasure without thought of self.’ Lyons uttered the sort of snort I imagine Doubting Thomas snorted. ‘Tell him, Jeeves!’

‘Unfortunately, sir, you have quite misinterpreted my motives.’ Jeeves seated himself on my other side, and gave my shoulder a sort of consoling pat. ‘You will recall, of course, that it was I who first suggested inviting guests to join us and to enjoy you, and I suggested it with considerable thought of self. I take intense pleasure in seeing you ravished, and any pangs of jealousy or possessiveness are assuaged by the simple fact that you will be mine once again when the guests depart.’

‘Oh.’

‘Nevertheless, I thought equally of you, and suggested it only because I believed it would be as agreeable to you as it has subsequently proved. I did, indeed, base this upon my understanding of our psychology. You are by nature somewhat submissive, and derive erotic stimulus from mild pain and humiliation. Thinking of yourself as daringly transgressive of sexual taboo also titillates you. Your greatest pleasure lies in abject surrender to intense sensation. I, by contrast, am distinctly dominant. While I am intensely protective of you and your interests, I derive both amusement and arousal from seeing you flustered and helpless. While it is deeply satisfying to directly make love to you, being a participant prevents me taking full aesthetic pleasure in the spectacle. As an onlooker and assistant, the delights of observation are open to me.’

‘I - er - I see.’ (Beneath my cheek, Lyons was trying his hand at Chortling Thomas, and I was becoming Blushing Bertram. I felt rather a goof.) ‘Well, as long as you’re happy.’

‘I am, sir. Thank you.’ He stroked my shoulder as if it were a favourite kitten, though I felt more like a fretful porpentine. Whenever I think I understand one of Jeeves’ plans, they always turn out to be nine-tenths under the surface, like an iceberg, if that’s the thing I mean. It seems that being what we are, and feeling so intimate and close, makes no difference to that.

‘Baby looks a little peeved, Jeeves,’ Lyons grinned.

‘I’m not peeved,’ I mumbled.

Jeeves proved again that he is a marvel and managed to stroke my shoulder with an inquiring tone. 

‘You might have _told_ me,’ I grumbled. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Only, I think, what you already know. I chose prospective guests with great care, based upon their predilections and yours. I own that I took pleasure and pride in the success of my match-making, and in seeing how much you enjoyed one another.’ 

‘Damn right we did,’ Lyons said, dislodging me and getting up. ‘I’d like to catnap with you, but I got places to go and shit to do. Better get dressed.’

I rolled back towards Jeeves and butted my head into his lap. ‘I might be consoled by having my head scratched,’ I told him severely. 

‘Whatever you think best, sir,’ he said, and scratched my head with the greatest dexterity. Do you know what a pleasure it is to have your head scratched all over, gently and thoroughly? I’m sure Jeeves’ scalp treatments are why my hair has been so glossy lately. While he scratched and I basked, Lyons dressed himself briskly and took his leave.

‘Thanks, Jeeves. See you later, Bertie-boy. Toodle-oo,’ he smirked.

‘Tinkerty-tonk,’ I replied. ‘Come again any time you like.’ 

‘Just lemme know the next time your ass needs stuffing. I’ll see myself out. You two look sorta cosy.’

His heavy footsteps faded, and Jeeves worked around my ears and rubbed their lobes between his fingers and thumbs. I closed my eyes and beamed. Icebergs seemed unimportant now.

‘I should attend to your sponge-bath,’ Jeeves murmured. ‘Before you grow too sticky.’

‘No. Cosset me forever.’

‘I shall cosset you when you are once more clean.’

He was as good as his word, too. Once again, he wiped me down with a warm, wet flannel, blotted me dry with a soft towel, and laid me down, bare as a baby, on clean sheets, before lying beside me and gathering me into his arms. His coatsleeves were warm against my skin, and I wriggled one naked leg in between his pinstripes.

‘Better still if you took all this off, old thing,’ I mumbled against his shirtfront.

‘Then how would I answer the door, sir?’

‘Your friends would understand.’

‘And if one of your friends should call?’ He kissed my forehead. ‘Amiable young gentlemen, one and all, but perhaps not prepared for the sight of my undraped figure.’

‘I love your undraped figure. I should like you to drape it over me.’ I looked up at him as appealingly as I knew how, and it must have been very jolly appealing indeed if the way he kissed and cuddled me was any indication. His soft, warm, heavy lips caressed mine juicily, and I felt as if nothing existed or mattered outside his arms. Well. Obviously our legs and so on still existed and mattered, but I think my point stands. I murmured adoration, all ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than a stiff b. and s.’

I was quite miffed when the doorbell rang, regardless of who it might be. Jeeves sprang up at once and smoothed himself. It was like a conjuring trick. One moment he was the ardent lover, panting hot and harsh against my eager lips, the next he was the model valet, without a hair out of place. Even the crease of his trousers was undisturbed. I have _seen_ him dishevelled - I’ve dishevelled him myself and enjoyed it - but hevelled seems to be his natural state, to which he returns.

He shimmered off and I lay comfortably, waggling my feet a bit, wondering what next was in store for Bertram. I heard the door open and listened keenly, and then my blood chilled as I heard a cheerful ‘What ho, Jeeves!’ in the unmistakable tones of my chum Bingo Little.

‘Good morning, Mr Little,’ Jeeves replied with his customary suavity.

‘I say, is Bertie in?’ Bingo yipped. ‘I’ve got into a bit of a pickle and I think he could be just the chap to help me out before Rosie hears anything of it.’ Rosie, of course, is the authoress Rosie M. Banks, who when she is not churning out reams of romantic fluff finds time to be Mrs Bingo Little. Jeeves reads her books; I can’t stick them myself. I have never quite understood what a man so addicted to improving books, and Spinoza and all that, not to mention a man who likes to tie his master to the bed for a jolly good ravishing, sees in those rather soppy love stories. He doesn’t think much of my detective novels, either, but we seem to rub along.

‘Unfortunately, sir,’ Jeeves began, and I began to feel calmer, but Bingo cut him off.

‘Then I’ll just come in and wait. D’you think he’ll be long?’ 

My heart went sort of freezing cold and burning hot at once, and my stomach turned icy and no mistake about it. For Jeeves had, in a rare lapse, left the bedroom door ajar. If Bingo bustled in making for the sitting room, I would be quite exposed. He might not glance to left or right, of course, but there would be nothing to stop him seeing me if he did. Jeeves, being a paragon, can explain many things away, but I don’t think even his magnificent brain could explain away my being sprawled on my bed, loosely tied to the headboard, wearing nothing but little leather straps. Bingo has been my friend more or less eternally but one doesn’t quite like to test a friendship that way. What on earth could we do? 

Here you see one of the key differences between my psychology and Jeeves’. We can both think quickly in a crisis, but Jeeves thinks of what to do, whereas I think, very quickly and in great detail, of how deeply immersed in the soup I am.

‘Unfortunately sir,’ Jeeves repeated, more firmly, ‘Mr Wooster is indisposed.’

‘Oh, he’ll still see old Bingo!’

_‘Gravely_ indisposed,’ Jeeves said quellingly. ‘I would surmise that, late last night on his way home from the theatre, Mr Wooster purchased something to eat from an insalubrious handcart, which began to violently disagree with him in the early hours of the morning.’

‘Oh, I say,’ Bingo said.

‘The morning’s events have been both exhausting to Mr Wooster’s person and trying to his dignity. Only recently has the storm passed sufficiently for him to experience restorative sleep. I regret that I could not possibly allow him to be disturbed for anything but a vital emergency.’

There was a pause during which I imagined Bingo assessing the vitality of his emergency. It was nothing like the vitality of mine, I can tell you. I was having the most peculiar problem. I was in abject fear of being discovered and exposed. I simply could not bear the thought of how shameful and embarrassing that would be, even if Bingo were a brick about it. I was on pins, needles and all manner of other sharp pointy things. My cracksman _ought_ to have been shrivelled up in hiding, and instead he had sprung to attention and was sniffing the breeze avidly.

‘Well, I hate to disturb him if he’s really poorly,’ Bingo said, ‘but this is an awfully sticky wicket. Could I talk it over with you, Jeeves? You always have such good ideas, even if I don’t have Bertie to help me execute them.’

‘Certainly, sir. Please walk in.’ 

My eyes quite started from my head at Jeeves’ seeming recklessness, but as he preceded Bingo down the hallway, by a remarkable sleight of hand he drew the bedroom door shut without so much as a squeak or a click. Bingo’s footsteps stilled outside and I ardently wished to be invisible. A wet shiny drip fell from my mushroom-cap to my thigh.

In a loud, hoarse whisper, the sort a dashed idiot uses when he wants to talk to a sleeping chap without waking him up, Bingo loudly, hoarsely whispered ‘Bear up, Bertie old thing. I hope you’re feeling better soon.’ Then he followed Jeeves to the sitting room, and every muscle in my body sagged with relief. 

Unfortunately, the prick is not a muscle, and mine remained proudly alert. I tried everything I could think of to make it go down, except of course moving an inch lest I make a sound. I thought about Madeline Bassett and the absolute twaddle she talks about bunny-rabbits and fairies. I thought about the bounder Spode siccing a legion of his Blackshorts on me. With grave reluctance, I thought about Aunt Agatha, and the little wretch did not budge a fraction. I was beginning to think I should find some way to bottle whatever it was I’d got so I could sell it as patent medicine to middle-aged fellows losing their drive.

I could hear but not quite understand the conversation going on in the sitting room, Jeeves murmuring deferentially and no doubt with a good deal of perception, the mighty brain whirring away, while Bingo’s voice rose and fell in complaint and beseeching. The clock on the bedside table began to tick rather loudly, and my lad began to bother me badly. The urge to touch myself was so strong that I had to wrap the cords from my wrist-cuffs around my hands and hold on tight. I wished Jeeves had shortened the ropes so that I simply couldn’t. My mouth had dried up, and my tongue felt most abominably large and sticky.

Finally Bingo’s ululations began to sound hopeful and rather bucked up. I heard footsteps approaching once more and tensed up all over, trying to press myself flat into the mattress. Even if I could get the rest of my body somehow dug down into it, there would still be a bright pink tallywhacker sticking up jauntily, as if a baddie in a Western had told it ‘Reach for the sky!’ It was, in all ways, a terrible cock-up.

However, Jeeves sent Bingo out as neatly as if he were putting the cat out, though I suppose you don’t encourage a cat to let you know how your suggestions for restoring marital harmony worked out. Cats’ marriages are their own concern. The door closed safely behind him and I breathed again. That would have been the ironic moment, if ironic is the word I want, for the tower to fall, but it was too dashed thick to appreciate irony, so it just kept standing up, wiggling slightly as I breathed.

Jeeves returned with a satisfied aspect, and this time, I am pleased to note, he did close the door behind him. His gaze fell upon me and one eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch.

‘I did not realise, sir, that you were so eager to see Mr Little. If I hurry, I may be in time to call him back.’

‘Don’t talk rot, Jeeves. This isn’t for Bingo.’

‘Is it not, sir? The conclusion would appear inescapable.’ His haughty froideur would chill a chili pepper.

‘It isn’t. I promise. I don’t know _what_ it is, but I have never had eyes or any other organs for Bingo Little. He is a chum and nothing else.’ I feared I was babbling rather, but I have ever been as a brook in that respect. ‘It just - well, it popped up! It was quite content to have a little rest, or so I thought, yet here it is in hunting pink.’

‘Indeed, sir.’ I have mentioned before that Jeeves has a special intonation for some utterances of ‘Indeed, sir’ or ‘Very good, sir’ that is not unlike the inflection of ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Well, um, and, what do you propose to do about it?’ I asked hopefully.

‘I propose to restrain you more firmly.’ He shortened my cords very jolly briskly, so that the backs of my hands were up against the headboard. I shifted my bottom and pushed myself up a bit with my feet.

‘And then?’

‘And then,’ Jeeves repeated thoughtfully, standing back. ‘Hm.’

‘I say, Jeeves, you’re not waxing wroth, are you? A chap can’t help what his chap does. Please don’t wax wroth, Jeeves. Wax anything else you like.’

‘You suggest that your phallus itself bears the responsibility for this indiscretion?’

‘Well. Yes.’

‘Then it shall also bear the punishment.’

Punishment, when Jeeves speaks of it, can mean either things I will enjoy very much in a debauched sort of way, or things that I would really rather wouldn’t happen. Things like not being allowed to attain sweet relief for a jolly long time. I had a nasty sort of inkling that he was veering thataway. 

‘We shall send it to Coventry, sir. Neither you nor I shall touch it. I shall inform our next guest or guests of the same. For embarrassing you in this way, it must suffer the pain of being entirely ignored.’

I knew better than to argue any further. I could see the steely determination in his gaze. Clearly, things were about to go rather roughly for the young master, and if I held my tongue I _might_ not make them any rougher. He sat down beside me and softly stroked my cheek.

‘I am so _sorry_ that you have been inconvenienced by such an unruly member, sir.’ 

‘Think nothing of it,’ I mumbled. He bent and kissed me, and I clenched my toes, digging my feet into the mattress. His strong forefinger slipped inside my collar, and as he stroked my tongue with his, he slipped said strong f. around to the nape of my neck, and drew it back. The band of white kid tightened across the front of my throat, and I swallowed awkwardly. He shushed against my lips and kissed me again, still steadily drawing. The pressure grew, and my breath came shorter. I felt just a bit of panic, but more trust. He slackened his hold for a moment, enough to let me exhale and inhale, then kissed me once more, deeply and firmly, pulling the strap taut against my throat until I saw stars and choked. He drew back and let me sip air once again.

‘Thank you,’ I gurgled. My throat ached, but I wanted him to press it again, with the palm of his large, warm hand this time. He’s done that only once, and I briefly fainted so he says he won’t do it again. I, however, believe that he may be worked upon if I’m patient.

‘Shh,’ he shushed once more, and began to kiss along the edge of my jaw, nibbling and nipping at the bony corner before descending to my neck. Just as I thought there was a satisfactory downward trend, he trailed back up and began to worry at my earlobes. Being licked just behind said earlobes invariably makes me squirm and thrill with warmth. 

All this, of course, was calculated to impress upon my pego how very firmly in disgrace it was. No licking or nibbling for _you,_ John Thomas. No gentle sucking, no harder sucking, no big strong hands smoothing down over your chest, although you, in point of fact, do not possess a chest. He passed his hands down and then back up, massaging what I think are called the pectoral muscles - anyway, the bosom, but in a more firm and manly sense. Mine are not as big or firm as his, but they squish around in a gratifying enough manner for both of us. My nipples pricked up again, and he bent to kiss them, then to suck them. Usually he does this just a little, as a prelude, but the prelude went on until it seemed more like an opus. I tried to concentrate on how very, very lucky my nipples were, and to ignore how neglected my chap felt. He was actually weeping, in a syrupy, drizzlish way, down his own shaft where he lists a little to the left, and onto my thigh. I could feel the weight of the wretched thing joggling and tugging at its root inside me with each little motion of my hips. I tried my darnedest to still those motions, but they were unstillable.

‘Oh, Jeeves,’ I breathed. He would look up at me, from time to time, from under those wonderful brows of his, just as is his wont while sucking that which he was now snubbing. He glances up, and then he gazes, holding me transfixed, until I feel as if I am swooning forward into the blue depths, and just then the sooty lashes sweep down. ‘Jeeves, best of Jeeveses, you are _so_ lovely.’

He quietly hummed his agreement and swapped nipples. The one released from his assiduous mouth (with a soft wet smooching sound) was looking very swollen, and feeling acutely tender and tinglish. I was beginning to suspect that he meant to work them over until they were quite bruised. I find the thought of bruised nipples, stained purple and blue, acutely stimulating; the ache of them throughout the day, reawakened by every brush of the shirt, would be as the voice of Jeeves whispering ever and anon in my ear, ‘You are mine, dear.’

When the bell rang again, I was in a fine lather, and it had become quite clear that there was absolutely no hope of my pillar subsiding until such time as Jeeves might decide the punishment had gone on long enough. It was shading towards mauve, and if he had promised to touch it in exchange for even unto half my kingdom, I would have offered him the lot. Yet I was determined not to beg, nor to whine, at least not until a bit later.

Jeeves dabbed a last kiss to my lips and oiled off to greet the newcomers. I lay panting rather, and pricking up my ears. If I had had anything left to prick up which was not already pricking up to the utmost, it would have pricked up in response to the voices I heard.

They were as follows:

‘Nincompoop! Pyrographer! Bashi-bazouk!’

‘Calm down, Captain, he’s long gone now. Hallo, Jeeves.’

These were not only new guests, but guests I hadn’t had the pleasure of entertaining before. We had met just once, for one of Jeeves’ preliminary teas-with-negotiation, and I was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of knowing them better.

I must digress at this point so as not to bewilder you utterly, and explain that one of the traditions of the Junior Ganymede is the club book, a mighty tome in which each member is required to keep a record of each of his employers, for the benefit of any other member who might consider working for those gentlemen in future. Each entry lists the sort of thing you would expect, the chap’s name and where he lives, what he pays, the services he requires, and then, I suppose, it says ‘Remarks’ or ‘Misc.’ and the real meat of the thing commences. This is where they write down all a chap’s peculiarities, eccentricities and peccadilloes. 

The chief point is to let a fellow valet, butler or allied professional decide whether he could cope with that sort of thing, or if the game for him would not be worth the candle, but Jeeves has admitted to me that it’s very common to read these bits for their sheer entertainment value. Sometimes they say things like ‘Pays only a moderate salary, but exceptionally generous with gifts and gratuities’ or ‘Quick to anger, requires careful management,’ but other times they include tit-bits like ‘Designs ladies’ lingerie under the pseudonym Eulalie Soeurs’ (the knowledge of which once saved my skin), ‘Took up the banjolele, necessitating my decampment for a week in order to impress upon him the error of his ways’ (I have yet to entirely live that one down), or ‘Invited eccentric scientist to stay, who proceeded to invent a device which shattered all glassware in the house with sonic waves.’

That last applies to the present guest with a knack for invective, a retired officer of the merchant navy who lives in a rather charming pile down in Marlinshire. His butler is a member of the good old JG, and pops in to update the club book whenever he can get up to London. Jeeves modestly informs me that while he holds the current record for pages of peccadilloes (eighteen before he decided to be my man for life, and neatly snipped out the leaves before consigning them to a sacrificial flame), this Nestor bird is in second place. 

Nestor’s stock was looking rather low at the Ganymede for a bit there, since his previous employers had turned out to be crooks of the most lavish sort, running a trade in stolen antiques in the undercroft while he hadn’t had the smallest idea of what they were up to. Jeeves tells me it is cause for great shame in a butler to be unaware of any significant secret in his employers, particularly as actual violent crime is one of the rare exceptions to their vows of confidentiality, and these birds had had another bird shot. (Their name was Bird. I found it a confusing story.) 

I rather gather that Nestor’s buttons might have been cut off and his drinks tray snapped across someone’s knee for this lapse, except that everyone felt so jolly sorry for him. He had been bopped painfully on the onion with a heavy bakelite telephone receiver in all the kerfuffle, and was clearly deeply humiliated. He was given a second chance, and soon redeemed himself with a positive stream of jolly anecdotes about his new master, a good-hearted but choleric cove perpetually at war with his physical environs. After reading several of these tales and noting the prominent role played by a young friend of the Captain’s who seemed to have become something of a fixture around the place, Jeeves discreetly intimated to Nestor, who was not otherwise interested in our sort of intimacy, that the young master might like to know his master, and introductions were effected.

So it was that we had tea with these two, which I would have found jolly enjoyable even without the prospect of a spot of gross indecency. One of them’s a writer, but not of romantic piffle or high-minded snore-fodder - he writes the most lively tales of mystery, adventure and danger, and they are all quite true because he has lived them all himself. We had a wonderful chat about mining one’s own experiences for material, and how we both had our start in journalism - he as a cub reporter for the _Daily Bugle,_ and I as a special correspondent for Aunt Dahlia’s rag _Milady’s Boudoir_ (I submitted a piece on ‘What the Well-Dressed Young Man is Wearing’ that I’m still rather pleased with). He’s a Belgian, too, like Poirot, so I suppose the Belgians are all brainy. I wonder if Jeeves has any Belgian in him?

I’m not introducing the chaps properly at all. The writer I was just talking about is called Tintin. Just the one name, like Saki or Beachcomber. It’s an odd sort of name, but then so is Bingo or Boko when you really come to think about it. He’s remarkably young to have done so much - I think I would place him in his late teens, but I’ve never really been sure. He’s short and slender with red-gold hair in an amusing little quiff, and a perfectly sweet round rosy face. He did the bopping of the Nestorian onion, but they’ve said pax and all’s well.

His inseparable companion, you might politely say, is the choleric Captain that I kept alluding to, whose proper name is Haddock. He’s a good bit older, I should say at least forty, of a stocky build with a brush of black hair and a beard to match, and a prominent hooter in between.

Now when two chaps of quite disparate age are what we might call inseparable companions, you tend to expect that the elder will be, well, not exactly master, but rather the dominant personality. With his greater maturity and experience, he rather tends and moulds his protégé into a man of the world. In the case of Tintin and Captain Haddock, it’s quite the reverse. Not that the Captain is anyone’s idea of a shrinking violet, but he plainly looks up to Tintin and lets him take the lead in everything. Without properly explaining why, he mentioned during our tea that ‘This boy saved my life, and he always has _excellent_ ideas.’

The point of the tea was to get acquainted, to make quite sure that we were interested in the same sort of thing, and then over the second round of sandwiches and into the little cakes, to discuss the specifics. So it was that we passed from dealing with truculent editors and aunts, and the complications of foreign travel, to such matters as cuffs, gags, blindfolds, and other things that made me look like an advertisement for rouge as I squirmed in my seat. Jeeves and I have talked all these things through, and tested this and that if I wasn’t sure about it, in order to decide what’s welcome, what’s negotiable and what is off the menu. He tends to do most of the talking at these times, while I cast bashful looks at my potential ravishers and appreciate the cakes.

Both of them are madly keen on tying up with ropes - as the Captain says, a sailor has a passion for knots, and in Tintin’s case it seems to be due to a misspent youth in the Boy Scouts. When it’s just the two of them, of course, only one can tie while the other is tied at a time, so they thought it sounded like jolly good sport to have a third party involved. 

Jeeves brought in the party guests just at that moment, Tintin smiling and Haddock glowering. It seemed they’d had some sort of collision and entanglement with someone in the street outside, who from the epithets Haddock was spitting (‘giraffe, bargepole, ectomorph’) sounded very much like Bingo. This had made the Captain drop his valise, and in the confusion and apologies Bingo had picked it up and made off with it, leaving them with his briefcase. They had had to chase him around two sides of Berkeley Square to get it back, because they didn’t want Bingo’s rotten editorial notes for _Wee Tots_ , and they were almost sure he didn’t want a valise full of rope and the sort of magazine that tries to convince you it’s about muscular development but is actually about pictures of strapping young chaps with winning smiles and the bare minimum of clothing.

Anyway, they were both rather hot from running, and Tintin lost no time in throwing off his coat, peeling off his jumper and shirt and sitting down to give me a kiss and a cuddle. He looked happy to see me, and I must say, if I could smile the way he does I could wrap aunts around my finger. He’d kissed me before, when we said goodbye after our tea, but that wasn’t as bold as this or as lip-smacking.

‘Hello,’ he said after a bit. ‘What _have_ you been up to?’

‘All sorts,’ I said, truthfully. I wished I had the use of my hands. He had extraordinary soft, fair skin, with very little hair, just a texture like the surface of a peach. D’you know the sort of milky whiteness that you only see on redheads and some blonds, where the colour of any flushed bits just glows like rose-petals? He would altogether look like an innocent schoolboy if it weren’t for the two rather noticeable scars, one across his upper right arm and the other over his ribs on the left. ‘So have you, I suppose. Are those old sabre-cuts?’

He laughed and put his hand over the ribcage one rather self-consciously. ‘No, no. Bullet wounds. Only grazes. I’ve never been _really_ shot.’

Haddock, who was being helped out of his jacket by Jeeves, gave rather a dark snort at that. One understood. I’ve never been shot at all, though the whizzing of bullets nearby is a prime reason for my dislike of huntin’ and shootin’, and I don’t see how you can be shot but not really. ‘When did that happen? Or rather where? Or perhaps both?’

‘This was in China, at a temple,’ he said, touching his arm, ‘and the other was at home, in a field.’ I supposed by home he meant Belgium, unless people there have jolly odd living arrangements. ‘You’re not too tired for us, are you?’

‘Oh, no. It takes more than this to flatten Bertram.’ One couldn’t look soft to a chap who went around being shot at in temples and fields. Well, one didn’t have to worry about looking _soft,_ in any case.

Jeeves gave one of his softly ovine coughs. ‘If I may interrupt, Mr Tintin, I must inform you before you proceed that Mr Wooster is under an interdict. You may touch him anywhere you like, with the exception of the genitals. They have been sent to Coventry due to an indiscretion.’

‘Oh - well, that’s all right, we can still have a good time. Ready, Captain?’

The Haddock had soothed his ruffled nerves by lighting a pipe, and Jeeves had evaporated in order to produce whisky. He nodded in the affirmative and ankled over bedwards.

‘These aren’t very interesting. You ought to see the Captain’s decorations,’ Tintin told me, and he got up and started untucking the navy-blue woollen jumper that encompasses the Captain’s tum.

‘Watch out, Tintin, you’ll have my pipe out.’ While his young paramour skinned him out of his jumper, pushed his braces off his shoulders and peeled off an undershirt or so, he kept passing the thing from one hand to the other to avoid putting it down and taking hasty sucks from it as events permitted. Jeeves returned with his whisky, which would have added to his troubles if Tintin hadn’t just cast the last layer aside and run a judicious hand through his hair.

‘Behold, the illustrated man.’ Tintin stepped back and held out his arms in a flourish. Smack dab in the middle of Haddock’s chest was a mighty tattoo of an anchor, done in bold lines that showed clearly through his coat of black hair. Wreathed around it were plaited ropes in a pretty pattern. He was all over tattoos, some of them very old and faint and blurry. Tintin made him turn about, sipping his whisky, to show me the highlights: over one of his biceps, a reproduction of the label of a Loch Lomond bottle, over the other, a leaping haddock. One forearm featured a lovingly retouched heart with ‘Mother’ on a ribbon round it, the other a much fresher one with the initial ‘T’ on the ribbon. Most of his back was taken up by a prancing unicorn which was, in defiance of natural history, breathing fire. The rest were fitted in here and there, a sea serpent, a dusky maiden in a grass skirt, a swallow, a few names with lines through them (the clearest one looked like Chester). It was all jolly nautical, and almost took my mind off the desperate state of Wooster’s Column.

‘There are even more down here,’ the young stripling went on, setting to work on the trouser-buttons. He had his back to me, and I was rather enjoying seeing what a pert bottom he had. I don’t really approve of plus fours off the links, but his fit him to a nicety. He dashed off a smile at me over his shoulder. ‘Here’s one I really like.’

There were two great snakes wrapped together around the chap’s right thigh, red and gold and green. When he lifted his leg to step out of his trousers, they seemed to flex and undulate. Not that he was a rippling muscles sort of chap - he had a good deep chest and strong-looking arms, with a suspicion of a paunch in the front. My Jeeves has a suspicion of a paunch, and it’s one of the things I love about him. Sometimes when we lie abed I put my hand on his tum and jiggle it and utter some little pleasantry on the lines of ‘wiggle wiggle pancake.’ He generally swats my hand and calls me an inane whippet or something of the kind. The Captain’s paunch was a bit more suspicious than Jeeves’, but it was nothing to make a man consider a girdle. It evidently didn’t worry Tintin, because he was giving him a friendly rub through his drawers and teasing him with little dabbing kisses, drawing back when he tried to reciprocate.

‘What shall we do to Bertie?’ he asked.

‘Hmm.’ Haddock laid his pipe safely on the mantelpiece, knocked back the last drop of whisky and placed the glass alongside, then came over to stand with his hands on his hips and examine me. I gave him a friendly and hopeful sort of smile. To own the truth, and this was very unsporting of me, I was hoping they would contrive to bring me off by accident, and I could enjoy the release without it being my fault. The risk of a peevish Jeeves was one I was prepared to run, as long as he couldn’t directly blame me. This was not at all _preux,_ and I’m rather ashamed as I look back on it, but there are very few things that compromise a chap’s essential principals like an aching stiffy. It’s almost as demanding and unreasonable as an actual Stiffy. According to Jeeves, with time and training I should get over this, but I must be willing to make the effort, and admitting I was wrong is the first step, and so on and so forth, so there we have it, first step taken: Bertram was in the wrong. Five hundred lines, I must keep the spirit of the law, not only the letter.

Anyway, Haddock was hmming over me, and young Tintin was divesting himself of shoes, socks and other lower apparel. Seeing him in the altogether was quite an eye-opener. I make no pretence as to my fondness for whacking big wilies. They fill both the mouth and the botty in the most satisfactory manner, and the sight of a good one is enough to set the one watering and the other twitching (if it could water too I’d save money on Vaseline). However, I wouldn’t like you to think me narrow-minded and capable of appreciating only one type. Heavens no! Though I know it won’t press the passion-button in the same way, I adore and admire a comely _little_ willy. 

His was ever so sweet. It sat in a little nest of strawberry-blond curls, looking about the length of his thumb, with his eggs hanging just below its tip. The tip was one of the most enchanting features, for he had one of those long, tender-looking foreskins that extends beyond the meat of the sausage and forms a little thingummy like a sweetly pursed and kissable mouth, or I suppose the tip of an elephant’s trunk had it just one big nostril. My own does something similar when I’m soft, but his did it more thoroughly.

‘May I make a request?’ I piped up.

‘You may, sir,’ Jeeves replied. He had ensconced himself in the armchair that I flop on if I need a rest in between getting up and getting dressed, and looked thoroughly comfy. Furthermore, he had his hand in his lap and was gently cupping himself through his pinstripes. 

‘Well - Tintin - I’d be ever so chuffed to suck you off a bit.’

His face lit up and he scrambled onto the bed with the alacrity of a young rabbit. He shuffled himself up to straddle the Wooster corpus, his knees nestling into my armpits, and took hold of the headboard for support as he brought his hips forward, presenting the tiddler to my eager lips. At first I enjoyed just mumbling the protruding foreskin about, giving him the upward baby blues and getting it thoroughly wet and slippery. He beamed down upon me and nibbled his lower lip most pleasingly, particularly when I sucked it hard enough to stretch it out (not easy when the only real movement I could do was to draw my head back and give myself a double chin). He had a lovely spicy smell to him, very warm and delicate, like freshly ground cinnamon - perhaps that was what the tiny freckles dotted over his shoulders were.

‘Come on,’ he said softly, and fed his little saveloy deeper into my mouth with one hand. ‘Suck it properly.’ Of course I did. Imagine, a whole tickle-stick that I could fit in my mouth! Even as it swelled and hardened, it didn’t get a great deal longer. I hoped that he didn’t feel badly about it, and that his rather ursine friend told him often and anon how delectable it was. I slurped it as I would a proffered sweetie, and made noises of the deepest appreciation. His sandy lashes fluttered down, and he began to pant and sigh. Haddock leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek and to wrap two hands around his chest, under his arms. While I sucked, he kissed and stroked, up and down, from armpits to hips, while the boy shuddered and mewled. He took one hand from the bedhead to fling that arm around the Captain’s shoulders and kiss him more thoroughly, wet pink tongue flashing into dark beard. And he began to pump his hips, really rutting into my mouth. 

Usually the only person I like to do that is Jeeves, because he has a finesse of technique that gives me the pleasure of choking on him a bit without feeling as if something will tear. Because Tintin was so small, choking was really not on the agenda, but there was something about the heedless, wanton way he used my mouth, not even looking at me, all his attention on the Captain, that gave me a feeling of the most extraordinary thingness. No, for once I am not being vague because I can’t think of _le mot juste._ I felt like a thing that he was using for pleasure, this lovely, randy boy, and I loved it. One of Jeeves’ little helpers on the tray by the bed is a rubbery sleeve lined with sort of fine flexible ripply ribs. You smear some Vaseline or dribble some oil into it and roger it unmercifully. I felt like that sleeve. My face was getting all wet and messy with dribble that bubbled from the corners of my mouth as he fucked into me. That’s a word I rarely use, but it was utterly appropriate. 

He took his other hand off the headboard, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled my head up so that my nose was pressed into his flat, fluttering little tummy as he hammered away. I could feel the muscle of his thighs and bum getting tighter, and the sounds he made were growing higher and sharper. Haddock had slipped one hand down his back to finger between his billowy regions, and I could only imagine how good the dear lad was feeling. If I could have had pleasure like that at his age, if I’d known the people who could give it me, I’d never have done anything else. I was near ecstasy myself. If anyone had _breathed_ on my whangee I would have come off then and there. As he did, just then, making a noise like an enraged Siamese and liberally whitewashing the roof of my mouth. As I couldn’t quite co-ordinate myself to swallow, and gallant little Belgium went on pumping away, sticky trails of the stuff burst from the corners of my lips and ran down my chin and neck, all mixed up with what I can only honestly call slobber. At long last he pulled out and fell back into the Captain’s steady arms, leaving me gasping and light-headed and as tipsy as if I’d had a pint of the blushful Hippocrene. 

After a little bit the room stopped spinning and my ears stopped singing, and I could lift my head enough to see Tintin looking ravishingly pink and white, like a bowl of Eton mess, being cuddled and soothed by Haddock, and Jeeves looking equally ravishing in his quite different way, with the central pole of the Big Top very much in evidence. He was still stroking himself through the pinstripes, I suppose to make the pleasure last longer. He gazed at me intently, and blew me a kiss with his free hand. I licked my lips and managed a smile, though it took a moment for the old labia to remember how to do anything but suck.

I gargled rather, then managed to clear my throat and ask for a drink of water, which Jeeves poured for me immediately. (Of course, a carafe of water at the bedside is part of the standard equipment for these binges.) He tenderly lifted my head and held the glass to my lips for me to sip, and when I had had enough, washed my sticky face like a mother cat.

‘You are doing _so_ well,’ he murmured between licks. ‘I am engorgingly proud of you, dear.’ While I had eyes only for him, I could hear sounds from further down the bed that suggested Tintin was recovering from the old post-coital languor and getting a good rough kissing. He was probably hard again already - oh, to be young.

‘Captain,’ I heard him say, rather muffled, ‘you should bugger him next.’ I did think it a little odd the way he’s always calling his sweetheart Captain. I believe his Christian name to be Archibald. Still, you can’t moan ‘Oh Archibald!’ in the throes of passion, any more than I could ‘Oh Reginald!’ Jeeves - and calling him Reggie or Reg would be tantamount to _lèse majesté._

‘D’you think so?’

‘I’d love to see you do it.’

‘Right you are.’

My hips squiggled in anticipation. Here was something that really, if I was lucky, might push me over the brink. I can’t rely on being able to come from buggery alone, but it has happened often enough to be no very remote possibility. I hadn’t seen the little Captain yet, so I wasn’t sure if it had the sort of girthy curve that most often brings me to bliss, but if hope springs eternal in the human breast, it springs even more so in the Wooster fundament.

Jeeves, ever one to put guests first, returned to his armchair and the Captain crawled towards me. His pale blue undershorts were thoroughly tented out, with a fine dark soggy spot where the head of his bathtub eel rubbed, and I drew up my knees and spread my legs invitingly.

‘Thundering typhoons, he’s gaping open,’ the chap rumbled. He sucked his finger to wet it and stuck it in without preamble. Resistance was there none. ‘Gaping open’ may have been a bit of an exaggeration; I couldn’t actually _see_ the affected region any more, but certainly, the purse strings were slack.

‘Mr Wooster’s previous guest was a gentleman of ample proportions,’ Jeeves explained. 

‘You should have seen me when it was fresh,’ I offered. ‘I think you could have got your hand up there - Tintin’s hand, anyway.’ A flicker of doubt crossed the Wooster map, I believe. ‘Will I not be tight enough to please you?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. You’re just right.’ He turned and nodded over his shoulder. ‘Tintin, come and lend a hand. We’ll get him tied first.’

They set to work as if rigging me for a journey to the Indies. First they untied my hands from the headboard and levered me into a sitting position, knees up, bent and spread, with heels drawn up to my bottom. Ropes were produced and bound securely round thigh and shin to hold both tightly together, while they chatted amiably and occasionally bickered about the best knot for the purpose. Clearly, they wanted to make a pretty pattern as well as restraining me thoroughly. To restrain my hands and make sure I didn’t touch the forbidden tickler, they simply tied the rings of the two wrist cuffs tightly together, behind my back, then ran a short rope from them up to the back of my collar. I had to be ever mindful of the height of my hands, or risk choking myself. Finally they made me sort of kneel and sit on my heels, while they admired their handiwork. I felt - well, invigoratingly uncomfortable, and my pego was copiously weeping once more. 

‘Could we take some pictures, Jeeves?’ Tintin asked. ‘Just to remember him by?’

‘I could not advise it,’ Jeeves replied, somewhat soupily. ‘Evidence can always fall into the wrong hands.’ 

‘Please,’ I ventured, ‘will you be buggering me now?’

‘Yes, we will.’ The Captain gave me a smile that creased the skin about his eyes into a net of sun-squinting old-salt wrinkles. ‘Tintin, pop around to the back.’ As the lad complied, he discarded his now rather damp and crumpled shorts to reveal a perfectly spiffing botty-bludgeon, ruddy, veiny, thick and promisingly curvaceous.

I could hear those smicking sort of sounds that mean a giggle-stick is making the acquaintance of Vaseline, and then I felt Tintin’s chest against my back and the head of his little sausage breaching my crevice. He socked it well in there, hugging me about my waist and pushing me up onto the joints of my knees. 

‘Ooh,’ I breathed. ‘That _is_ nice.’I still thought they meant to take it in turns until he passed the Vaseline over my shoulder and the Captain anointed himself. Then he shuffled in, shoving my knees further apart so that my inner thighs were at full stretch. He clasped my billows with both hands, gave a little grunt and lifted me higher. Tintin reached between us, held him steady and took aim, and between them they lowered me onto the mighty plonker. 

Shall we use Lyons as a unit of measurement? One Tintin plus one Captain Haddock equals one Lyons and a tiny bit, or so it felt. I was stretched tight around their two hot, fat things, and they were pressed inseparably together by my tightness. I let out a strangled cry, which turned into an actually strangled not-cry, as I had arched my back unwisely and pulled down my wrists. No sooner had I squawked than Tintin grabbed my hands and pushed them back up, though, and though I was seeing stars and choking rather, I found it agonisingly pleasurable when they began to move. I felt that wonderful passive thingness again, that I was their shared cocksleeve, the means of their coupling. My head lolled and I gasped voicelessly as the Haddock, which felt more like a tarpon, ground against my bottom-button.

I don’t think he cared about that, though; he was growling to Tintin, ‘Do you feel me?’ and the boy was panting ‘Oh, yes, yes!’ They moved together, rubbing and coursing, and my lad knew some relief at last, because I was rubbed too, against a stocky belly covered with black hair and tattoos. 

There came the soft yet utterly distinct cough of a Jeeves who felt duty bound to interfere. A cough like that can cut through the wildest din, let alone the grunting of a man and a youth in the grip of connubial whateveritis. ‘May I suggest, sirs, that you modify your position? A slightly different angle of penetration would prevent the stimulation of Mr Wooster’s recalcitrant member.’

‘Right, right.’ And they shifted and hitched me until I was fucking empty air as they used me. I whimpered desperately. The Captain was as strong as a bull, and though Tintin was little and wiry he was full of vim, and I’d already felt how he approached the rhythms of coitus. If possible, he showed less restraint with my bunghole than with my mouth. I looked over to Jeeves to reassure myself that everything would be all right, and found him red-faced and masturbating furiously, still fully clothed, only his gentleman’s gentleman protruding from his flies. 

I won’t dissemble. It hurt. It was thrilling how much it hurt. The lovers might split a cocksleeve with this sort of pummelling. I was utterly helpless. I knew, though, perfectly well, that Jeeves would _not_ let anything bad happen, and so I could enjoy skimming along the edge of the fear that it would, the way you do on the coasters at Coney Island that make you feel as if you’re hurtling to your doom. Later on, I don’t know how I thought Jeeves would prevent a rupture, but I was certain of it when it counted - and I will gladly spoil the suspense by telling you that I didn’t suffer a rupture, or anything worse than a tiny bit of bleeding from the rim.

They used me to their perfect satisfaction, and there was no possible way for me to climax. My button was being punched, right enough, but the pain harnessed the leaping stallion and kept him in check. My pego was jiggling wildly in the air, crimson and flicking blobs of clear goop hither and yon. The Captain began cursing wildly, using words I couldn’t begin to define, and even Jeeves might have thought twice about. Tintin was whimpering and babbling, and I felt the tension in him build until it burst. He slumped, and Haddock grabbed for him, and held both of us up as he thundered and blistered his way to an eruption. When breath permitted, he laid me aside and cuddled up to his Tintin. I lay on my back, legs splayed, arms trapped under me, head hanging off the side of the bed, two generous helpings of gentleman’s relish dribbling out of me. Rarely have I felt so totally debauched. 

Then Jeeves was there, as Jeeves is always there when I need him, and he fed his cock into my gasping mouth and used me until he spent with a shout of joy. 

I’m rather vague about everything that happened after that. My head swam, though not dangerously so, and a soothing darkness was before my eyes, though I don’t think I fell asleep or fainted. When things were rather clearer again, the guests had taken their leave, all was clean and tidy, even my bottom, and I was lying untied on the bed, my head resting in Jeeves’ lap and his hand gently stroking my hair. I lay breathing slowly and quietly, loving the dreamy warmth and peace that filled me.

‘How are you, my own?’ Jeeves asked quietly.

‘Mmph,’ I said astutely. 

‘You’ve assured me you are quite well, but I was not entirely sure you were in command of your faculties. May I ask again? Are you well, dear?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ I said, and nodded a fraction. That was close enough to an intelligible utterance, and Jeeves just snuggled down beside me and held me for a good long while. 

‘I didn’t come off, did I?’ I asked. I found myself unaccountably anxious now to have held out. My cock was soft, but everything felt so heavy and sensitive and overcharged that I couldn’t be sure.

‘You refrained admirably,’ he assured me, and kissed me for another good long while. 

A chime rang, and I sighed. ‘Jeeves… I’m so sorry, but I’m fagged out for now.’

‘As well you might be. I will smoothe things over. In the meantime, I want you to rest.’ He rose and pulled up the covers, making me quite snug, and shimmered away.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly relationship background, but still, plenty of creative euphemisms for the penis.

I did sleep for a while, and very sweet, restful sleep it was too. I don’t know who was at the door, but I suppose Jeeves took care of them somehow. I was cuddled up by Morpheus, who is the second-best at this sort of thing after my paragon. Eventually I drifted awake again, and lay with half-lidded eyes, vaguely noticing that it was still quite light outside, probably only early afternoon. I hadn’t had a thing to eat (unless you count the relish), but I didn’t feel peckish. My bottom was outstandingly sore, so I uttered a feeble bleat for Jeeves. Almost before my lips closed he was at my side, with a cup of tea at the ready. I explained my difficulty, and he rolled me gently onto my side and applied a soothing unguent. 

‘How does it look, Jeeves?’ I murmured as he unged.

‘Rather red and swollen, sir, but otherwise unharmed. There has been a slight seepage of blood, consistent with small abrasions to the anal cushions.’

‘Anal _what?’_

‘Anal cushions, sir. Three consistently placed submucosal vascular plexuses formed by anastomosis of rectal veins within anal columns. Their purpose is - ‘

‘Are they where they should be?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are they doing anything they oughtn’t?’

‘No, sir.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ I felt his cool fingers leave my cleft, and heard him wiping his hands on a towel. ‘Did you learn all that from Marks? It sounds like his sort of thing.’

‘My own research, sir. _Mens sana in corpore sano.’_ He turned me onto my back again and proffered the teacup. I sipped gratefully. My cuffs were still in place, but not attached to anything. 

‘Any other guests, Jeeves?’

‘Mr Day called, sir. He expressed his disappointment at missing you, and his hope to improve your acquaintance at no very distant occasion.’

‘The little scruffy chap?’

‘The Bohemian gentleman, yes.’

‘You are a devil, Jeeves, picking up inverts in bookshops.’

‘Mr Day’s tastes are broad and catholic, sir, but they certainly include yourself.’ Jeeves took the cup, and stroked my hair fondly. ‘No-one further is expected. Please rest a little longer, and I shall wake you for a light evening meal.’

I could have argued, and I could have asked where exactly my todger stood vis à vis the city of Coventry, but everything was so pleasant that I merely snuggled down again. I was just a trifle disappointed to go no further today, but really, I had had three encounters of the most spiffing sort. I drowsed lightly and languidly, and Jeeves left the room. 

At some point I heard the doorbell again, and Jeeves answering. A clear voice of the feminine and non-nonsensical variety drifted to my ears. 

‘Hallo, Reggie dear. I know I said I couldn’t make it today, but I’ve had a change of plans, and I wondered if I might possibly be naughty and ask you to fit me in.’ 

I do like Miss Allen. She’s either a member of a sister club to the Junior Ganymede, or the sister of a _member_ of the Junior Ganymede, I’ve never quite grasped which. She’s a lady’s companion and lives a life of single blessedness keeping some sort of dowager from feeling too lonely or dull. She could not be termed either a filly or a beazel, being rather more ripely mature than either class, with sort of honeyish coloured hair and cornflower blue eyes and a way of looking at one as if one is an awful ninny but she likes one tremendously regardless. She even looks that way at Jeeves, if you can feature it. Miss Allen is emphatic that she was not cut out for marriage, but nor was she cut out for maidenhood. She had an adventurous youth on the Continent, and she likes to fondly recall it from time to time by bumming me with a strapped-on widow’s friend, then sitting firmly on my face to see if I can bring her off with my tongue before I smother.

I was surprised when Jeeves introduced us, but I must say she is just the ticket and a very interesting contrast to my other admirers. Never let it be said that Bertram, while as thoroughly inverted as the slice of toast that lands butter-side down, altogether eschews the fairer sex. I thought I would have to eschew her a bit today, though, feeling as I did.

‘I regret, Miss Allen, that Mr Wooster is already quite spent from his exertions of the morning,’ Jeeves susurrated. He must have brought her inside to be saying that. ‘He is presently abed.’

‘Oh dear. And I’d popped in at the greengrocers to get a fresh hand of the best Jamaican ginger, just for him.’

‘The gift is very much appreciated, but the present state of Mr Wooster’s anorectal region renders it extremely inadvisable to introduce any irritant.’

‘Never mind - waste not, want not. I shall take it home and candy it. Are you at all busy now, Reggie dear?’

‘I find myself at liberty, Miss Allen. Are you at all disposed to take tea?’

‘Just as well I’ve brought my knitting. Let’s have a good chat and set the world to rights.’

I do like for Jeeves to have friends. He doesn’t usually entertain them at the flat, but he had earned a treat. Morpheus was snuggling upon me again, and I drifted off with him for a while. 

The next thing I heard was Miss Allen laughing in the sitting room, and Jeeves quietly laughing with her. It made me smile too. 

‘Now Reggie, I don’t think you’ve ever told me the story of you and Bertie. How you came to fall in love. I feel sure it’s worth hearing.’

‘A simple enough story, Jane.’ How he had unbent! ‘I must admit that I was deeply attracted to him the first time I saw him. He did not appear at his best, being unshaven, unkempt, and the worse for drink and a very late night. He blinked at me owlishly, and I thought that here was a young gentleman I should certainly have to take in hand. There was a sweetness about him even in his unprepossessing state, which seemed to reach out and warm me.’

‘And so you took him in hand, then and there?’ I could hear her knitting needles clicking away. 

‘Only as befits a valet entering the service of a gentleman. It takes time for me to give my heart, Jane. A mere attraction may be trifling. It may easily fade through the truer knowledge of character. As time went by, I realised… well...’

‘As regards character, I know many people who would say that Mr Wooster is one of Nature’s sunbeams, but not one of her bright sparks.’

‘They wrong him, Jane, and I wronged him too. I mistook simplicity for stupidity. I marked him down as an amiable gentleman, trusty and true, but mentally negligible. As such, I thought that I would feel only fondness for him, never a deep love. I cannot love where I do not also respect. But you see, I made the error of judging another by myself. We so often judge a man’s intelligence by the performance of his duties, particularly in his profession. I have no false modesty. I am a highly competent valet. By diligent observation and practice, I have mastered the several skills of a gentleman’s personal gentleman. This, however, would not enable me to excel as I aspired to do. I have looked further, higher. I have educated myself thoroughly in philosophy, sciences and literature. With a deeper understanding of our world and the men and women who people it, and above all, the psychology of the individual, I am equal to the special challenges which Mr Wooster’s service presents. Therefore, we say, look at Jeeves: an intelligent man.’

‘I should say you _are_ intelligent.’

‘Thank you. But what is Mr Wooster’s profession? What are his duties? Can a man’s soul be satisfied simply by preserving an inheritance, contracting a suitable marriage, producing an heir and leaving the inheritance to him? That is the only duty to which life has called him. He has no interest in it, or in any gainful occupation, and so we call him unintelligent, foolish, infirm of purpose. And yet, and yet. Mr Wooster’s purpose is simply this: happiness. He wants to be happy. He has a genius for happiness. He seeks happiness for himself and for all around him. His kindness, truth and generosity are virtually unbounded.’

‘A heart of gold, then, despite a brain of lead, you told yourself.’

‘A heart of gold, true, but still I misjudged him. My attraction and fondness deepened with better acquaintance, and yet I told myself that I could not enter into a marriage of true minds with a man of lesser intelligence. I did not yet recognise that while my intelligence is Apollonian, Mr Wooster’s is Dionysiac. If I am reason, he is fancy. If I am rhythm, he is melody. Perhaps you are familiar with the concept in Eastern philosophy of yin and yang, the balance of complimentary opposites - or more classically, the story presented by Plato, that human beings were originally created each with four arms, four legs and one head with two faces. A vengeful and fearful god sundered each into two incomplete beings, and all of us spend our lives in search of our other halves. He _is_ my other half, Jane. It took me time to see it, to know and to value him as he deserves.’

I hugged my pillow. It smarted like - well, like my bottom - to think of Jeeves thinking me stupid, but it was cool, kind salve to my mental and cardiac cushions to know that he had changed his mind. And what a mind! That fabulous fish-fed brain, the bulk of which lends to the back of his head that graceful bulge, is ever an object of awe to me. I wanted very much to ask Jeeves what he meant about Apollonian and Dionysiac. All I could make of it was that he might like sunshine and I might like a tipple, which is true as far as it goes but hardly seems significant.

‘How did it happen? Once you knew you could love him?’ Miss Allen prompted him.

‘As time went by and we grew increasingly familiar and attuned to one another’s moods, I became certain that Mr Wooster felt an answering attraction to me, but refrained from expressing it. This was quite understandable. Being uncertain of my feelings, and well aware of the opprobium society and the law place upon such liaisons, he would not speak. Knowing, too, the extreme chivalry of his nature, I believe he shrank from any expression which might seem to exert undue advantage over me. You cannot imagine, Jane, how alluring he was in his diffidence. His furtive glances, the blooming colour in his cheeks and lips if we should by chance touch, the darkening dilation of his eyes as I dressed and groomed him. If he were in distress and I had occasion to physically support him, he would lean into me with perfect trust, and let go of me only with reluctance. I am not as purely kind as Mr Wooster. I am amused by a struggle. I began a deliberate campaign of subtle provocation.’

Oh dear. It’s true. Of course, Jeeves could read the old map like, well, a map. I developed first a schoolboy crush and then a true tender pash for him. If I looked at him with a touch of soul’s awakening while he was smoothing my lapels and delicately brushing a loose eyelash from my cheek, can you blame me? He is… _Jeeves._ A man of infinite resource and sagacity, friend, philosopher and guide, the specific dream rabbit, and aesthetically an absolute smasher. I was in the dreadful posish of not wanting to give away how I truly felt about him - because of all that oppro-thingy he mentioned, you know as well as I - and because if there is one cad of all cads I do not want to be, it’s the master who tries to seduce the servants - and _yet_ I didn’t want to repulse him in any way. One does not let a paragon slip through one’s fingers, let alone give him the mitten.

I know about that subtle provocation, too. That gag with the eyelash was all part of it. I was letting him give me my final pat-down before dinner at Totleigh Towers, and trying not to look too much like a vibrating newt, when he stopped… gazed intently at my face… his lips parted slightly… and he raised one hand to softly brush my cheek with one f. and c. thumb. I’m afraid my lips parted too, like a trout about to take the lure. I thought I was about to be kissed. My heart was drumming, my tummy was fluttering and all points south were a-tingle. I wondered if I should close my eyes. Then he drew back his hand and showed me the wretched thing.

‘An eyelash, sir. There is an amusing superstition that on discovery of a shed lash, one may make a wish and blow it away. Would you care to indulge?’

I was going to wish for Jeeves to requite my love forever and ever, but at the last second I lost my nerve and wished to be honourably free of my engagement of the moment. I can’t even remember now who it was, though I can still feel the brush of his thumb if I think about it. It was a waste of a wish, in any case, because who needs wishes when you have Jeeves working on your problems? No genies need apply.

He went on tantalising me in the most fiendish way. His chief tactic was lingering. His gaze would linger, or his hand, or his _voice_ would linger over the word ‘sir,’ just a fraction longer than necessary. The blighter would linger in the bathroom, too, tidying while I sat in the claw-footed boiling the water and praying for the bubbles to screen my tumescence.  He would _caress_ the word ‘sir.’ I was beginning to worry that so much blushing could cause me physical harm - at the very least, gin blossoms. Every night once he had put out the light and retired to his lair I would wank myself blind and wonder if he heard me. I dreaded it and wanted it in equal parts - because what if he heard, and came, and I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and heard the beloved voice offer his assistance?

This went on for weeks because he _would_ not make the first move, and I _could_ not. Finally we reached the crisis point, which coincided with, well, was precipitated by Boko Fittleworth’s birthday party at the Drones. I imbibed not wisely but too well, and, inflamed by a rather risqué recitation from the birthday boy, wobbled home with steam coming out of my ears. After a few moments’ scratching around the lock with my key, Jeeves opened the door and stood there looking resplendent, even at so darkling an hour. 

‘Welcome home, sir,’ he said. ‘Shall I prepare a bath?’ 

‘Mwarrjeeves,’ I said, stumbling in.

‘Are you well, sir?’ he asked, hovering at my elbow. 

‘I’m jolly well,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height, just under his. ‘I am fit as a fiddle and twice as lively. Jeeves! I must tell you! I can disassemble no longer!’

‘Could you mean _dissemble,_ sir?’

I know now that I did, but it seemed immaterial at the time. My eloquence failed me. The lights were low and he was beautiful. I grasped him firmly by the lapels and kissed him so hard our front teeth clacked together. That hurt rather, but I was undeterred and went on showering kisses all over his dear face and clutching him to my person and mumbling broken words of love until, unfortunately, I sort of swooned down the front of him to puddle at his feet.

He must have put me to bed after that, and I slept like the dead. I awoke late the next morning, feeling fragile, with a pounding head and a mouth that tasted as if someone else had been sick in it. Unlike the stories where a chap wakes the next morning with no memory of what he did in his cups, I remembered exactly what I’d done, and I shrivelled like a salted slug. The awful, awful part was that while I’d been kissing him and shinnying up him like a tree, Jeeves had remained unresponsive. He hadn’t shouted, or shoved me away, or slugged me, or any of the other things a chap might justifiably do when pounced upon against his wishes, but he hadn’t kissed me back or put his arms around me. At best, he had tolerated my ardent caresses. I felt vile. 

I tried to tell myself that it had been some shameful dream, but I knew better. When I dreamed shamefully about Jeeves, he was a good deal keener. What on earth would happen now? Would he give notice? Would he leave without notice? Had he left already? In my desperation, I thought only of how terrible it would be to lose Jeeves, not of any sort of legal or social consequences if he blabbed.

Just then he shimmered in bearing not only the morning cup, but a snifter of his magical pick-me-up.

‘Good morning, sir. I presumed that you might appreciate this.’ He held forth the pick-me-up, and I abjectly guzzled it down. I was hoping that a good part of how awful I felt was just my hangover, but alas, the miracle didn’t work on a broken heart and a guilty conscience. Jeeves began whisking around the room as he does of a morning, drawing the curtains and so on. I watched him, sipping my tea. I couldn’t think what to say to him. Even my usual enquiry as to the weather died on my lips. 

After a bit he glanced at me and, unprompted, told me that it was a fine and clement day and he thought our new biscuit-coloured suit might profitably make its début. I nodded mutely.

‘If you are more than usually indisposed, sir, shall I summon a physician?’ he asked, and he truly sounded a little concerned.

‘No, no, quite unnecessary. I’m sure a bath will set me to rights,’ I croaked. The bath got me clean and that’s all I can say for it. I stood like a dummy letting Jeeves dress me, wondering why he said nothing about last night, beginning to suspect that he was charitably overlooking it. In my guilt, I submitted meekly to a positively boring dove-grey tie. And as he stood before me, straightening the knot and smoothing my lapels, I crumpled up and began to cry.

Without a word, he folded me into his arms, laid my head on his shoulder, and held me close, moving only to smooth his hand up and down between my shoulderblades. Jeeves had never hugged me before, and now I couldn’t even enjoy it. I blubbed and snivelled, and I picked up my head at last and told him that I was so very, very sorry for the abominable way I’d behaved, and I only hoped he could forgive me and it wouldn’t spoil everything.

‘Oh, sir. You have spoiled nothing.’ He raised me up again and stood off a little, but only so that he could fetch out a large white handkerchief and dry my face. He held it to my nose for me to blow and I did so. ‘We need never speak of it again.’

I felt as if he had patted me on the head while socking me in the gut. I crumpled again. ‘But Jeeves, I luh-luh-love you!’

He gathered me back into his arms, and stood swaying very gently to soothe me. ‘I wished only to be fair to you, sir,’ he murmured against my neck. ‘And in justice to myself, as well, I could not accept a declaration of love made in drink. I needed to know if you would say it of your own accord when sober. Otherwise, I dared not hope.’

Everything changed. The sun came out. (The sun had already been out for some hours, but you know what I mean.) I took a slow, deep breath. I straightened up, and availed myself of the handkerchief once more. I looked my man in the eye, and found no censure there, only trust and hope.

‘Then I must say, again, without making any more of an ass of myself than I already have: I’m in love with you, Jeeves. You are all to me.’

He brought both his hands to my cheeks, and his forehead to rest against mine. He closed his eyes for a long moment, and then looked up into mine. ‘And I love you, my dear boy.’

_Then_ he kissed me. It was wonderful. It was only the second time someone had given me a real French kiss, and the first time was a chorus girl who was temporarily on my lap and the whole thing made me feel jolly peculiar. There was nothing peculiar about this. His velvet tongue stroking my lips and entering my mouth was perfect. I knew exactly why people did this, and I felt I could do it too. Somehow we ended up on the floor, and he was on top of me, and his thigh was between mine and rubbing in the very best way, and I was endlessly in love.

The first time we made love (on the bed, we are gentlemen) he was very tender with me. Rather than penetrating me, he pressed his merrymaker between my thighs and rubbed it there. I was much relieved that he could be satisfied with that, because I’d heard rather awful stories. It took time and some gentle massages for me to understand that those stories were about chaps who didn’t know what they were doing, or didn’t care if they hurt someone, or were made up by chaps who were just terrified or disgusted by the whole idea. First I took his fingers, then his tongue, then, with love and joy and reverence and wonder and some embarrassing mewling noises, his perfect archbishop. 

After that there was no stopping me. I wanted more of everything. Jeeves brought me wonderful, filthy books to extend my _education sentimentale_ and taught me the true history of men like us, through the ages and around the world. Not only tragedies like poor Oscar Wilde, but men who loved and were happy together. He promised me that we would be like that, and that he would help me to try whatever I wanted. The first time someone else joined us was because I wanted to know how fisting felt, and Jeeves’ hands proved too big for me to take beyond the knuckles.

It hasn’t all been sunshine, of course. After the first two nights he wouldn’t sleep with me. I was rather hurt, because I know I don’t snore; you find out as soon as you go away to school if you do. Having pillows buzzed at you or your open mouth slowly filled with soap shavings tends to cure it, and if not, Matron sews a tennis-ball into the back of your pyjama top. I asked him what was the matter, and he confirmed the absence of snore, but filled me in on a few other things I apparently do under cover of slumber: I wriggle, I squirm, I smack my lips lasciviously, I kick him in the ankles, and I engage in somnolent frottage. He claimed that at one point I burped in his ear, but I dispute that.

And in any case, my mattress is too soft for his back. Jeeves favours a firm, flat bed with sheets tucked in tightly, while I like a downy nest into which I can snuggle deeply. There’s a feather-bed at Aunt Dahlia’s which is my ideal, but I gather they don’t make them like that any more. One doesn’t like to hint to aunts about their wills, nor to look ahead to a world without an Aunt Dahlia in it, but I do hope she might leave it to me.

He won’t _sleep_ with me, but he will lie embracing me until I get to sleep, and then gently disengage himself from my person and repair to his own room. A few times I’ve woken in the night, felt rather lonely or perky, and crept in with him. A thin firm mattress may be good for the back, but it’s not very good for the knees while being energetically loved within and without on all fours. They both had to be kissed better.

I realised I had been dreaming of Jeeves kissing my knees, and looking up at me with his lovely eyes, when he gently nudged me awake with the offer of a light consommé.


	5. Chapter 5

While I supped my consommé Jeeves did a little light tidying up around the room, and after that he let me up to visit the smallest room, which had become a matter of mild urgency. I don’t mean to give you unpleasant details, far from it, so I will once again draw a delicate veil over my exertions until I toddled back to bed and entrusted myself to Jeeves once more. He sat on the bed, propped on the pillows with his legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, and I snuggled into the side of him and had my hair tenderly played with.

‘I do love you, Jeeves. It may be redundant to point it out again at this stage, but I stand by it.’

He kissed the top of my head indulgently. ‘And are you happy?’

‘I am so happy that Larry envies me.’

‘Without having come off, dear?’

‘It doesn’t seem like the point, this time.’

He paused thoughtfully, and I enjoyed my view of his moue. ‘I have been meaning to ask you - though perhaps it is premature to raise the subject this evening - whether you would consider wearing a chastity device.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘A cage or muzzle-like device locked onto the penis and testicles, securing and compressing them, to be worn day and night. It is not designed to be painful, and your ablutions would be unaffected. I would, of course, provide you with a copy of the key so that you would be able to remove it yourself in case of an emergency. It would be there entirely by your choice to obey me and please me. No matter what sort of arousal or desire you felt, you would be physically incapable of either an erection or an orgasm - unless it were of the strictly interior sort sometimes achieved by stimulation of the prostate. No matter what you felt, no matter what I did to you, or allowed others to do to you, you would not receive that release unless I chose to permit it.’ He tucked a loose curl of hair behind my ear. ‘I might deny you climax for weeks or months at a time, while still making love to you every day. It would be very, very difficult for you.’

I thought about it. I gave it very deep consideration. ‘How is it locked on?’

‘By means of a small padlock.’

‘You would put a _padlock_ on my todger, Jeeves? And lock it up tight? And pocket the key?’

‘I detect by the light in your eye that this is not an altogether unpleasant prospect.’

‘And I could wear it day and night, everywhere, under my clothes, and feel it there and know I belong to you, absolutely?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And would you tease me horribly, Jeeves, and reduce me to a quivering, abject wretch, titillated to the very last extreme, suspended on the very brink of _le petit mort_ for a sweetly torturous eternity, heaven and hell in one?’

‘Possibly. If you deserved it.’

‘Do you have one already? Can we put it on now?’

He laughed softly, and kissed my hair again. ‘No, my own, they are by their nature bespoke items and I would have to order it from a highly specialised craftsman.’

‘Oh. Well, all right. But yes, Jeeves. My answer is yes. Do with me what you will, and I will yield to you gladly.’

‘Sleep on it, beloved. Take a few days to consider before I ask you again. I wish you to decide with an entirely clear head. If it made you unhappy - not suffering as you are meant to, but truly regretting your choice - I would release you at once but I would feel very badly indeed that you had been subjected to such regret at all.’

‘Oh, come on Jeeves. I’ve regretted a thing or two in my time, and it’s never done me any harm.’

‘I am thinking not only of your comfort but of _my_ pleasure. It would spoil it for me entirely.’

‘Well, then, _that’s_ different.’ I played with his waistcoat buttons. ‘I’ll mull it over.’

‘I have a friend who is often padlocked in this manner, and could arrange for you to meet and discuss his experiences. I think it would be most instructive for you.’

‘Arrange away.’

‘And it need not mean _permanent_ denial. There would be times when I would relent. When you had earned it, or when it would give me more satisfaction then the alternative. And for your birthday, obviously.’

‘Ah, what else do I get on my birthday?’

‘A surprise. You’ll see.’ He tipped up my chin and kissed my mouth. ‘Punishment is over now, and pleasure is to follow, for both of us.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Because the time to reclaim you as mine is at hand.’

‘Ooh.’

He buckled my wrists to the headboard again, kissed me on the forehead and got up to undress. Jeeves undressing is always a production. I’ve often observed him at work and admired the economy and grace of his every movement. In the throes of passion, he has taken me with only his flies undone, but when he’s decided to do things properly, by Jove, properly they are done. If you didn’t think it was possible to remove a collar-stud in a provocative and racy manner, you should come and watch Jeeves do it.

And of course, because he is Jeeves, he still neatly folds each garment as he sheds it and places it on the seat or over the back of a chair. Finally I could see him in the altogether, for the first time all day, and I spread my legs without even thinking about it.

‘Would you like something, my dear?’ he asked, sitting down on the bed again and stroking my thigh.

‘Of course I would. Don’t be an ass.’

‘I love your eagerness, but I have no wish to cause you any further pain, or to risk injury.’

‘Please, Jeeves.’ I gave him my most soulful gaze.

‘You may have a small plug, if you really wish it.’ He selected one from his tray and slipped it into me, very gently and well oiled. It still made me whimper, not entirely happily, but I so wanted that pressure inside me.

‘Now,’ he said, climbing astride me, and bent to kiss me, a long, soft kiss that deepened until my lips burned. ‘Are you spent, or can you rise again?’

‘Rise again. Oh, definitely rise again. Just rub me, _dear_ Jeeves.’ The laying on of hands and of unguents began, and he kissed me ever and anon. By the time he worked my apparatus up his fundament, it made him groan and arch his back. For something our guests don’t always realise is this: Jeeves likes it up the bum very nearly as much as I do. To see this great strong man grinding himself down on my cock is a treat just for me. I still think he’s simply topping.

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, I couldn't sustain this story, because I couldn't sustain Bertie's voice. I hope you enjoyed it, though.


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